In college a roommate proposed a deal:  she does all the cleaning, and I do all the laundry.  Sure!  Washing, drying, folding, and “it’s not like you have to beat it on a rock.”  I still hear my father’s words to the fifteen-year old me.  Easy.  And it was.  I thought I’d found the sweetheart deal for housework for life, and this was the perfect proposal for my husband.  Besides, he folds everything inside out.  This was a far cry from the requirement of my teenage years to fold all towels in thirds.

My husband will always take his socks off in the living room, and our 4-pound dogs will run off with their new playthings.  His socks will never be matched – there will always be one under the couch somewhere.  I have finally learned that when he is out of undershirts, they are either twisted in the bottom of our sheets or under the bed.  They are casualties of a tired man who gets hot when he sleeps.

Even unshaven, in a t-shirt and jeans, my husband is put together perfectly.  This requires a lot of clothes.  The perfect outfit usually consists of about three changes of clothes.  Sometimes the perfect jeans are in the dirty laundry, but they should be good for another day, right?  The unwanted clothes stay on the bed.  All of them.  The clean ones, and the dirty ones, live together.  I never know what to wash.  The solution is simple to my husband – just smell them.  This seems to be what men do, but I refuse.  I wash them all.  Why was this so much easier in college? 

Oh, yeah,  now I remember.  I used to take the laundry to my mother every weekend!


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