Iād rather be doing something else than folding all this laundry. How many towels have I folded in my lifetime? How many fitted sheets have I wrestled with before half-folding, half rolling it into a croissant-shaped white flag of surrender?
Iāve been listening to a lot of true crime podcasts lately. A host of one of them said that people murdered for basically three reasons: love, money, or pride. Any time someone is murdered, the first person the police question is the person closest to the victim. Itās a foregone conclusion: before the body is even cold, the victimās partner or best friend will be grilled by detectives. When you listen to as many true crime podcasts as I have, you start to worry less about shadowy figures lurking in dark alleys, and you start looking at the people you know. Whatever the reason, many of these crimes are perpetrated by friends or family members. It makes me wonder if anyone has ever murdered in a fit of blind rage having to do with laundry.
The thing is, I donāt even really mind folding laundry. I find it relaxing to take clothes fresh out of the dryer, when they are still toasty warm and smell like a slightly artificial version of a tropical breeze, or whatever scent of dryer sheet is on the shelf.
(Thereās the smell of a genuine tropical breeze, and then there are dryer sheets that smell like a tropical breeze. They are both nice, but they are certainly not the same.)
You know what doesnāt smell good? Sour milk. Iām pretty sure the milk in my fridge has gone bad because our 18-year-old went to college and he no longer bellies up to the kitchen counter late each night to pour an enormous bowl of cereal for himself. I would know it was 10 p.m. based solely on the sound of crunching and a spoon scraping the bottom of a bowl. We used to go through a gallon of milk a day, but one by one, the kids moved out, and pretty soon weāre going to have to buy the half gallon size because if we donāt, the milk will go sour before we get to the bottom. Then Iāll open the lid one day and take a whiff and think itās sour, but then I wonāt be sure, because maybe Iām just imagining it, so Iāll ask my husband, āDoes this milk smell sour?ā and heāll just look at me, crinkling his nose because heās been tricked like that before. He doesnāt appreciate it if I hand him stinky, rotten things to smell. That wasnāt in our vows, he says. Itās not the kind of thing you do to the person you love.
I used to think no one created more laundry than an infant: onesies and blankets and bibs stained the color of strained carrots. But then I had teenagers, and I think they create just as much laundry, if not more. Some days, my daughter has tried on three outfits before she walks out the door to high school, and I suspect she finds it easier to toss the rejected outfits into the hamper than to hang them back neatly on hangers. Our laundry baskets tell the story of our lives: there are clothes from sweaty frisbee matches and art projects and smoky flannels that smell of bonfires and sāmores. I bury my face in towels and t-shirts worn on the beach, still thick with the scent of sunshine and sand and that coconutty aroma of SPF 50.
The pockets of jeans and sweatpants become memory keepers, chronicling a few moments here and there from the life of my family: Unchewed sticks of gum, or stray coins. On a really good day, there might be a five-dollar bill ā a tip for the laundry fairy! (Thatās me!) There could be a couple of crumpled late passes scrawled on by a chemistry teacher, candy wrappers, or movie ticket stubs. Doing the familyās laundry is part scavenger hunt, part archeology dig, unearthing the recent history of the mysterious earthlings living with me.
Once, I found an entire sandwich in a Ziplock bag at the bottom of a hamper. Iād like to know how that even happened, but to this day, no one has owned up to it. Unlike the milk, I didnāt have to ask for a second opinion to determine if the sandwich was bad: fuzzy green mold had already glommed onto the bread and oily slice of cheese like some needy alien. I still shudder to think of it.
There are so many things Iād rather be doing than folding laundry. I just canāt think of what that might be at the moment. Besides, the laundry is done.
There will be more tomorrow. And the next day.
