I don’t enjoy washing the dishes, cleaning the bathroom, raking the lawn, cooking, or sweeping. I am the anti-homemaker. This isn’t some feminist statement and I am not throwing shade at housewives. I am just lazy as fuck. The ceiling could cave in, the toilet could overflow, every single dish could be dirty, and snarling vines could hold the house captive and I’d think about cleaning up for a quick second, say meh and change the channel (I am obsessed with the Investigation Discovery channel, and let me tell you, people are psychopathic beyond belief and there seems to be no morality in this world…but I digress) while biting into a Snickers bar.
The one thing I do like, however, is washing clothes, yessir. Dirty clothes is some unacceptable shit. I hate looking around my room and seeing piles of stuff all over. You know how when you smell the armpits a shirt that you found at the bottom of your closet and it has that “worn” scent? Yuck. So, needless to say, when I learned our new house had a washer and dryer I almost died from sheer joy. If I could, I would do laundry every day (but I don’t because apparently we have water and electric bills. Who knew?). Today, I washed five loads of clothing. Five. Back to back. My dad’s work clothes, like twelve towels, blankies, curtains, hats, and about one hundred of my mother’s silk pajamas (seriously, who made her the queen of Sheba?). I even washed a backpack for the hell of it.
I like how the hamper snuggles itself into my hip. I like having to decide whether to use cold water or hot water, extra rinse or super load. I enjoy measuring the detergent in the cap of the bottle. I really like taking out the lint from the dryer lint trap. I have no problem watching clothing spin and spin and spin. As I wait for my clothes to dry, I place my cheek against the rumbling dryer, letting the heat reach through to my face. It’s like a free, warm massage. I think it’s hilarious when I overload the washer and it goes berserk.
I can’t say I’m “good” at it, seeing as anyone can do laundry. But I like the monotony of it, the process. Select your settings. Dump in the detergent as the water rises. Shake out the clothes and place your clothing in. Wait for the washer to stop. Take the clothing out, one by one, of the washer and throw them into the dryer. Choose a drying time. Check over and over and over if the clothes has dried yet (it never has!). Wait for the sound of a buzzer. Take everything out. Sniff the gloriousness of the fabric softener. Fold.
And I do that over and over. Is it the idea that something goes in dirty, then comes out so fresh and so clean, clean? Is it because I feel like a pair of underwear sometimes, stuck doing circles in a dryer, unable to get out? Could it be that I relate to the spin cycle? Is it because I hope that one day I will be able to do the laundry for my husband and children someday? Is it because I get a few moments all to myself? Perhaps it is because I get to lose myself in my thoughts. Sometimes my mind gets to rest and I don’t think at all. Maybe I am trying to make one of the only few things I can do important? I don’t know, man. Let’s just say that I like clean clothes.