My laundry has maybe gotten a little out of control. It wasn’t so bad when it was just over the lip of my laundry basket. I could rationalize it. “Oh, there are a lot of towels in there.” “I have plenty of work clothes.” But now it’s overflowing.
One day my husband came home and thought there was someone standing in the corner of our bedroom. He claims that he hadn’t watched any horror movies recently. Even if he had, it’s a little disconcerting to think that my laundry bin has come to resemble a shadowy, hunched-over ghoul.
I like to excuse my behavior by pretending that my aversion to doing laundry is inherited. My dad’s idea of folding laundry is putting it in a heap in his closet. He has a permanent carpet made of shirts, pants, and socks on his floor, and it’s typically difficult to tell whether the clothes are clean or dirty (or some mixture of both). At least my dirty clothes are in a designated area.
I might need to resort to drastic measures soon. I’ll begrudgingly admit that I have worn swimwear pieces as undergarments in the past. I’ve already tried moving the laundry from the bin to piles on the floor annnd back to the bin. It looks terrible either way. Tomorrow I’m probably going to have to wear a skirt. People will compliment me for looking fancy, and I’ll feel obligated to admit that it’s only because I’m a slob.
Honestly, I should probably just do my laundry.
Sadly, I wasn’t exaggerating this time.