The Laundry Cycle

So there I was, pulling into the driveway after a few days visiting with my mother down in Southeast Georgia. I walked through the door, and lo and behold— the house smelled clean. I mean clean clean. And my husband Gene, hugged me and stood there looking mighty proud of himself. Then he informed me that he had also done the laundry while I was gone.

Hallelujah! I am truly grateful for my wonderful, wonderful husband’s efforts, but later in the week, as I went hunting for one of my long-sleeve Tshirts, I couldn’t find it. I finally found it tucked away with my short-sleeve T-shirts—folded up nice and neat, but in the entirely wrong drawer. After 36 years of living together, Gene apparently hasn’t been paying attention to where things live when I put them away. This, of course, was no real crisis. I eventually found what I was looking for, but it does make me wonder what exactly he thinks goes on around here on the weekends, all year long.

And so, today, I want to talk about laundry. It’s the never-ending story— the chore that never, ever stops.

Here’s how it goes. We wear our clothes. Our clothes get dirty. They pile up in the hamper until the lid is sitting at an angle and won’t close no matter how many times I smash it down into the wicker container. When I can take it no longer, I lug the whole mountainous mess into the laundry room, sort everything out on the floor into piles—whites, light colors, darks, delicates, towels—and spend the better part of a day or two (usually the weekend) transporting loads from washer to dryer. I haul armfuls to the living room and fold everything into neat stacks while watching something mindless on television.

The following week, we put the clothes on, wear them, get them dirty and the whole cycle begins again. It’s always running in the background of life, like a song on repeat—you can’t get out of your head.

It’s not just the task, but also the expense of it. I have delicate skin, so we have to use All Free and Clear detergent, or I break out in a rash. If I don’t use dye-free, fragrance-free detergent, I risk my eyes swelling shut. So our laundry costs more to clean, which irritates me, and I’ll be honest with you, All Free and Clear does not leave our laundry smelling like lavender, linen or a springtime meadow. When I was growing up, Mom used Downy in a blue jug, and every load came out smelling absolutely wonderful. The chemicals didn’t bother me as much back then. Those were the days.

And speaking of growing up, we had a dryer back then, but on sunny days, Mom hung some loads out on a line to dry. I always loved that, and I still put loads out on the back deck railing to dry in the summer when the weather cooperates. There’s something deeply satisfying about drying a load via free, solar power.

One more thing I want to touch on since I’m talking about laundry this week: We try and keep the sweaty clothes separated from our nicer clothes. Running leggings or shorts, sweat-wicking athletic shirts, Gene’s bicycle gear—these items need a good laundry sanitizer, and if they sneak into the wrong load, the other clothes will smell like they, too, have spent the afternoon at the gym. That warrants re-washing them, which really gets on my nerves. It’s just another added expense to the laundry routine, and before you write me and tell me to add some vinegar to the sweaty-clothes load, just know that I’ve tried that and it didn’t work well for us.

All this to say that I just don’t love doing laundry. I kind of hate it, actually. I love clean clothes something fierce. I just wish they’d get that way on their own. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and sort.