The title’s a lie.
While I adore the feeling of sliding into clean sheets, I pretty much dislike everything about laundry. Our laundry room resides in our basement, which means lots of stairs to climb both ways, especially on those occasions when I remember, last minute, that I put in one final load before bed that needs to get flipped to the dryer. I always hope that one is towels, because leaving them (dry) in the dryer the rest of the night won’t do much wrinkle damage.
The other day, I did bunches of laundry. I believe it was Sunday, but I react to the time change like a cranky infant, so everything about the weekend feels like a million days away. I didn’t feel all that behind when I started, but I did switch out the sheets on two of our three beds and washed the bathroom throw rugs, so the volume was more than I usually end up doing on the weekend.
As I folded and piled and matched socks and walked back and forth to closets to hang things, I tried to take a breath and remember even doing laundry can be looked at as a kind of meditative practice.
But, no thanks.
It’s not. Not for me, at least. And I’m not sure why my brain felt the need to take a stand on this particular thought, but I really turned it over and over in my head. It’s ok not to “appreciate” the task of laundry, as long as I’m getting it done and not letting it pile into a crusty mountain in the corner. It’s ok to say, the next fifteen minutes are going to be a pain, and I wish I could outsource it all like Warner in Legally Blonde.
It’s ok to love the feeling of clean sheets and not particularly care for the steps it takes to get there, as long as I do get there in the end.
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