Laundry

Today I went downstairs to do a load of whites because Stephen, our fourteen year old, needs white t-shirts for soccer practice. Imagine my surprise to see mounds of laundry to do. It's not like I didn't do laundry last week, I did. I just didn't finish the laundry. And that leads to the question, how could I forget to finish doing laundry? I have no idea. It happens sometimes, usually without warning.

Not to be too psychoanalytical about it, but I believe it occurs because not so deep-down I hate doing laundry. The only thing I like about laundry is when it is finished and my laundry room is nice and tidy. Of course, this feeling is usually marred by the missed pair of underwear or socks that remain at the bottom of the laundry chute.

I know people who don't mind or even enjoy doing the washing. (My mother springs to mind here. Hard to believe because she is so normal otherwise.) I don't get it. I can't figure out which part they might actually like or why.

It can't possibly be the sorting part. Talk about stressful. I know to have a dark pile and a white pile. Easy enough with one pile full of anything white and one pile of anything black or really dark. The reds are obvious and easy. (And for you novices, yes, reds really do run and turn things pink. I have the underwear to prove it.) But wait, what about orange?

Then I get to the lights. What qualifies? Is the olive green shirt that has faded a bit a dark or a light? What about the really bright blue shorts? They are made from that nylony material so I could wash them with the lights or the darks with no harm. And the white bra, I want to put it in with the whites so it stays nice and bright, but I suspect the hot water and the bleach do a number on its elasticity. Then there are the jeans. Denim is hard on anything, do they deserve their own load? Is it okay to put the old tan towels in with the white ones occasionally so they can have a good bleaching? And God forbid anything reversible finds its way down the chute. Which side am I supposed to base my sorting decision on? The dark blue side, or the plaid side which contains no less than four colors (including red) on a white background?

Drying should be easier, but has its own issues. Towels and jeans can't be dried with anything other than themselves because they stay damp while everything else is dry. Then that white bra again, because maybe it's the heat of the dryer causing the problem. Should I put it on the drying rack? If I decide to do that how do I remember to pull it out when moving the laundry from washer to dryer? Sheets, due to their twisting and trapping of small items in their corners, must be done alone, although they can be washed with other things. And, of course, there is the perennial missing sock problem. Not to mention the fact that jeans get smaller in the waist the more often you dry them (ask anyone.)

Which all leads to sorting, which I do not actually dislike. I can sort clothes while watching TV or talking to someone. I can even assign it to the kids. This, however, assumes I have enough laundry baskets. It's not like I don't have laundry baskets, I believe I possess at least eight. They just seem to float away and fill themselves up with stuff.

The drawback of having enough baskets is that I like to divide the laundry up in them. The more categories, the better. On a good day Harrison's socks can have their very own basket. This leads to a log jam of partially full to full baskets at the bottom of the stairs waiting to go to the second floor to be put away. And there they sit. And sit. And sit.

You would think that having to move or step over baskets containing their clothing in order to go up the stairs would signal to certain people living in the house that perhaps they might pick one up and take it with them. Alas, you would think wrong. At least they have learned to come when they hear me winding up for a good scream.

The final step of laundry requires putting the stupid things away. The boys have reached that critical stage of development which allows them to do this. My husband, Laurence, however, lags in this skill. I once decided to not put his clothes away. They could, I thought to myself, sit in the laundry basket until they rotted. He did not appear to notice. This went on for weeks. I would fill his basket and he would root through it to find clothes to wear. Slowly his side of the closet emptied. Finally, I caved. I know, for women everywhere I should have been stronger, but I just could not stand it a moment longer. We have reached a compromise, though. I put away anything that needs hanging up and he leaves everything else in the laundry basket.

My only hope for the future is disposable clothing. Wear it once and then recycle it. I can't wait.