Dear Laundry,
Ah, there you are, all wrinkled and rebellious. Clearly, this is a protest because I left you crammed in the dryer too long, isn’t it? You’re sulking because I was swamped with a million other tasks, and instead of getting folded, you chose to crinkle up in defiance. Well, tough luck — you’ll just have to stay crumpled, because if I can’t transfer you from the dryer to the drawer in a timely manner, you can bet that ironing is not happening. So in the end, you’re only making things harder on yourself.
By the way, that’s what those extra “fluff” cycles are for.
Let’s cut to the chase: you’re driving me absolutely nuts. You demand washing and drying every single day. Here’s a little newsflash — there are days when I can’t even manage to wash and dry myself! But if you don’t get the constant attention you crave, you resort to all kinds of pettiness, multiplying at lightning speed and developing an odor so foul that even Febreze would want to retreat back into its bottle. If you think being smelly will make me notice you faster, think again — you don’t need to assault my senses to grab my attention.
How could I possibly overlook you? You go from a couple of shirts and towels to an enormous mountain of clothes in just a few hours.
Yes, Laundry, I know you play a role in keeping my family clothed. Sure, that’s important. But that doesn’t justify your relentless attempts at taking over my life or the psychological games you play. You know I’ll eventually give in to your demands, so you just keep pushing, spreading yourself across my bedroom floor, invading the hallway, and piling up on the couch. You tease me with your mind games: “Am I actually dirty? Do you want to wash me again? Guess you’ll have to sniff me to find out.”
To make matters worse — as if I needed more reasons to resent you — you keep reappearing out of nowhere. Just when I think I’ve finally caught up with you, there you are again: a stray sock, a forgotten pair of undies, or an entire outfit that my family somehow overlooked because it’s just too difficult for them to place things in the hamper.
Now that I think about it, this must be a conspiracy. You’re probably in cahoots with the other chaotic elements in my life — the kids and the pets — plotting to keep me tethered to your demanding schedule every day. I can imagine you whispering to them, “Hey, kitty, why don’t you throw up on me? Then she’ll have no choice but to wash me!” And then you all cackle together in a way only your little mischief-makers can understand.
Let me be clear: I might be under your thumb for now, but one day — when the kids are grown — you will no longer hold this power over me. Mark my words.
Sincerely,
Jamie
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