Why I don’t like folding laundry

folding laundry

I’m good for doing any number of things around the house. Light bulbs? On it. Trash? Hit me. A little spring cleaning? I’m a point and click away. Laundry? Yeah man. I’m always good for a load or two.

Wait, that sounded funny…

My point is that I’ll throw the clothes in the washing machine, no questions asked. And I’ll gladly transfer them over to the dryer once their finished.

But I’ve got a little confession to make. I avoid folding laundry like the damn plague. And, I don’t care what my wife says. It’s not because I don’t know how to do it. I know how to do it just fine.

Instead it’s because of the finer nuances therein. The biggest one? Separating the clothes.

Unlike my wife, I simply don’t know whose is what. But I can go by size, right? Because that’ll help narrow it down. Which is pretty much what I’ve done in the past.

Luke gets all the baby stuff. My wife gets all the stuff that looks like it belongs to someone super hot. (You’re welcome, honey.) I get my stuff, which, it turns out, I’m totally in touch with because I’m incredibly self-absorbed like that.

Which leaves two piles. The first is a pile of stuff that looks like it belongs to a five-year-olds. Anything that’s girlie goes to Kirby. Anything that looks like a little boy’s obviously belongs to Sam or Jack.

But I’d be the first to admit I have no idea which shirts are Sam’s and which are Jack’s. Well, I guess I know some, but certainly not all. Same deal with jeans. Shorts, too. Though none of that really bothers me.

But not knowing who wears what socks? That bugs the hell out of me because feet are gross and sharing socks is even grosser. (Though, it’s worth noting that I have like the Mona Lisa of feet or something. Fantastic toe progression and arches worthy of cathedrals.)

So, yeah, the sock thing bugs the hell out of me. (You don’t suppose that they just wear each other’s socks, do you?) And don’t even get me started on the underwear situation. Unless you wanna pony up for a head doctor.

Anyway, back to my piles. (What’s wrong with me? Loads? Piles? My goodness.) Pile number one belonged to five-year-olds. The number-two pile (I totally did that on purpose) is the pile of confusion. And three different types of garments tend to litter said pile.

The first is socks. Because, seriously, they’re socks and we’ve already covered how gross they can be if worn by more than one person. But most of these socks are in the pile because they don’t have a mate, or, perhaps, have long since been paired with one that doesn’t quite match. And I’m kinda neurotic, so sometimes I put aside a pair that I know have been together for a while in hopes that the real partners for these mismatched foot covers will reveal themselves.

Second garment? T-shirts. Because a huge shirt on the triplets could, conceivably, be a small shirt on Alli, so I definitely get tripped up in the ol’ t-shirt department. When in doubt? It goes to the pile of confusion.

The third garment that litters the pile of confusion? Well, it’s the sole reason why I hate folding the laundry. Because trying to solve a riddle about socks or t-shirts is one thing.

But trying so solve a riddle about panties is another thing entirely. And I’m simply done with it.

Maybe it’s because I spent much of my adolescence / young adulthood trying to solve a broader, more-encompassing riddle pertaining to panties which has left me all pantied out.

But I don’t think that’s what it is. Instead, I believe it’s this:

I find it disconcerting (to say the least) when I’m unable to decipher my wife’s panties from my daughter’s. (Talk about head doctors.) And I’m afraid that’s now become quite a problem.

I’ll muscle through the sock thing. Even the little-boy’s-briefs thing. But don’t ask me to make some wild-ass guess as to which panties belong to my daughter and which belong to my wife. Simply put — there’s too much riding on it. You accidentally put Jack’s t-shirt in Sam’s drawer? No big deal.

But you confidently place a pair of panties in your wife’s panty drawer only to discover that they belong to an 11-year-old? The self-imposed ramifications are simply mind-boggling, bringing to the fore a brand of neuroses that would leave Woody Allen shaking his head.

Who, it’s worth noting, has been known to have issues with mother-daughter panty confusion, himself.

Oh, goodness. I gotta go y’all. Something about a head doctor.

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