Hi, I’m the laundry

laundryHi I’m the laundry. I’m as much a certainty in your life as death and taxes. That’s unless you’re rich and can pay someone else to deal with me.

I have an endless and thankless lifecycle: being worn, being washed, being dried, being ironed (if you’re particular) and being put away before being got out again and worn again and so on. It doesn’t matter what else is going on in your life, I need to be dealt with otherwise people start running out of socks or have to wear their least favourite pants and blame you for it.

I hang around in piles around the house. In the unwashed pile, in the half-clean-half-dirty-undecided pile, in the forgotten-about-and-left-in-the-drier pile, in waiting-at-the-bottom-of-the-stairs pile, in the bedroom floor pile, in the precariously-stacked-almost-toppling-over-waiting-to-be-ironed pile. Sometimes I’m in the ironed-but-left-on-a-chair-and-then-cat-took-a-nap-on-it pile which then needs washing and ironing again. Sometimes I hang on the line outside dripping wet because it rained when the weather forecast said it wouldn’t.

You hate it when you leave a tissue in a pocket in a wash. You hate it when a blue top gets into the white wash and dyes everything grey. You hate it when something wool or dry clean only and expensive ends up in the wash and shrinks.

I’m never ending. You want to be rid of me forever. You want to be rich and famous so you have staff to deal with me. You cry out for someone to invent disposable clothes but worry they might be made out of polythene and look crap but then decide that would be a small sacrifice for not having to deal with me.

Sometimes you try to console yourself that you’re lucky. That years ago I had to be washed by hand, squeezed through a mangle and then hung around the only source of heat in the house. At least you didn’t live then, eh?

But what bugs you the most is that to some people I’m magic. Oh yes. I somehow teleport from my dirty laundry basket into their drawers and wardrobes and get cleaned and ironed and folded in the process. And they don’t even notice. Don’t even give a thought to how a clean pair of trousers got there.

The scourge of some people’s lives and invisible to others. With a fairly prominent male/female divide (although not exclusively). That’s me. The laundry.

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About Emily

Freelance writer and author. And eater of chocolate.
This entry was posted in Writing and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink.

9 Responses to Hi, I’m the laundry

  1. kilburina says:

    I generally propose a clothing and food free week every 6 weeks or so to escape washing up and laundry but haven’t managed to do it yet.

  2. Heather says:

    Urgh, yes the laundry. I swear when it was just me and the hubby I did just one or two loads a week but with two kids the washing machine seems to be constantly whirring in the background.
    I feel very similar about washing up. Whenever I leave a room I am sure more things gather on the side waiting to be washed up.

  3. dadbloguk says:

    Oh yes, I can relate to this post. But that final suggestion isn’t suggesting women are better at ironing is it!!??

  4. dadbloguk says:

    Doh, not “final suggestion”…”final sentence”

  5. Caroline says:

    Wasn’t it you that once suggested laundry was similar to planes at Heathrow? There was simply not enough storage room for all clothes to be clean at once? I *think* it was. I use that a lot and it really annoys my husband who just thinks I’m a lazy mare!

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