I’m not so sure what’s hard about doing the laundry. I’m not talking about the folding part, that’s a royal pain. But the actual cleaning of the clothes – inserting into the washer, transferring to the dryer, and retrieving from said dryer – is not difficult. Especially if there’s a laundry chute involved. Then there’s no worrying about transferring the smell of baseball on a Saturday morning or sweaty just-from-the-gym feet to the relatively clean clothes you’re wearing.
So, if laundry is not difficult, why do some men have a mental block about doing it (and by some men I mean the one with whom I live)? These days Big D is hanging out at home with miss poopypants and little d full time while I bring home the hopefully non-swine flu-infested bacon. The offers to do laundry abound, but the follow-through is less than stellar. My repertoire has ranged from nagging to cajoling to bribing to offering sexual favors, and at most I’ll get a load or two if I’m lucky. Piles, nay, mountains, of clean laundry have lived in my living room for 2-3 weeks until I got fed up with digging for little d’s socks for fifteen minutes.
This morning, while I was explaining that I had to put on crusty, damp, kinda funky pants that had been laying on the bathroom floor (waiting patiently to get thrown down the chute) to take little d to the bus stop because all of my other pants were dirty (waiting patiently downstairs to get thrown into the wash), I realized that Big D doesn’t really care. He has probably a month’s worth of boxers and undershirts before he gets worried. I, on the other hand, have been a bit more frugal with my clothing choices and only have at most two weeks’ worth of reliable clothes that fit me before I need to do the wash. Of course I’m going to get frustrated before he will, he has a bigger supply and, frankly, lower demand. The houseladies on the playground don’t know that he’s worn the same shorts three days in a row.
So, because laundry really *isn’t* that difficult, I continue to chip away at the laundry mountain when I take a break on the days I work from home. And secretly plot to hide the clean boxers and feign ignorance when he’s running low. Baby, I love you, but if you can tell me what you think I want to hear and never follow through because you know I’ll just get annoyed and do it myself, I can be the queen of passive-aggressiveness. Sorry, but I need clean underwear to go to work tomorrow.