Big surprise here: I don’t like to do housework. I do everything to avoid it—exercise, read, write, watch TV, eat, nap, wash clothes. Yes, you heard me. For me, washing clothes is therapy, not housework.
This unusual philosophy stems from the fact that my family had a wringer washer when I was growing up. Laundry day was a HUGE deal, and I dreaded it. Heaps of dirty clothes literally covered the bath/laundry room floor. And, believe me, farmers deal in dirt. When I was old enough to help, I didn’t mind slinging the wet duds on the line; after all, the end result was air-dried clothing touched by the pleasant scent of the outdoors. When there was time and the temps were warm, I'd lie on the ground and idly watch the flapping laundry and identify the fluffy, overhead clouds as animals.
But I seriously objected to using the wringer.
One unfortunate event stands out clearly: as I inserted tab A into slot B—albeit, tab A being a wet shirt and B being the wringer—I panicked when the sleeve of the blouse I was wearing got caught! I started my inexorable move forward. Screaming and planting my feet, I anticipated being flattened like Wile E. Coyote! What ultimately saved me was the sensibility to yank out the plug. Maybe I’m being dramatic, but I felt it was a close call. What fourteen year old wouldn’t?
So now that I own a perfectly dandy washer, I use it . . . often. Even though there are only the two of us now, I find excuses to wash. And, if I could, I’d still hang my clothes outside. Unfortunately, I live in a neighborhood with a really weird covenant: Thou shalt not conserve energy; thou must dry inside.
Anyway, all this is a way to say that it’s time to do some housework. The filing is stacking up, and I have to clear my twelve-foot long workspace in order to see its surface and write in good conscience.
But maybe I’ll take a break in a bit and throw some sheets in the washer.
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