I'll admit it, there was once a time in my life where I actually enjoyed doing laundry.
No, seriously, I'd carve out one day of the week where I didn't have any work to do so I could spend a few hours sorting, washing, drying, folding, and putting away all my clothes.
Believe it or not, I actually used to find that routine relaxing.
Sure, he helps out, but thanks to our opposite work schedules, "laundry day" seems to almost always fall on a day when he's at work, so I end up sorting, washing, drying, and folding all those clothes by myself.
And let me just say, I now hate doing laundry. With a passion.
I work from home full-time now, and I'm lucky if I manage one or two days a week wearing something other than track pants and a hoodie. So when it comes time to do laundry, I'm mostly just washing undergarments and the odd pair of pants that I probably spilled something on.
I'm also not particularly fond of the fact that after I've spent all day doing his laundry, culminating in a neat little pile of perfectly folded clothes on his side of the bed, he'll come home, ball them up, and throw them in the closet.
That's definitely enough to make my eye twitch furiously, if not catapult me into a full-on rage mode.
Like, really ignoring it, to the point where I toss dirty clothes on top of the mountain that's already spilling out of the hamper and convince myself we can go "a few more days" before a trip to the washing machine.
After all, it's not my clothes that need washed, so what do I care? Evil laugh.
