Two days ago, I spent the entire afternoon trudging up and down the stairs to do several different loads of laundry, of which only about 10% actually belonged to me.
After all that utter nonsense, I proudly placed the now-empty laundry basket away, feeling like I truly accomplished something and could finally rest knowing it would be at least a week until I had to do that dreaded task again.
Or should I say, I thought it would be at least a week.
Believe it or not, just two days later that basket is somehow full again.
Seriously, I don’t know who else lives here, but I must have roommates I don’t know about because it’s simply impossible for that much laundry to have accumulated in such a short amount of time.
I know that if I want to save myself the trouble of doing even more loads next time, I should wash these clothes today.
I know that.
But here’s the thing: I don’t want to .
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Frankly, I’m rather sick of doing laundry, especially when the majority of it belongs to other people.
I’m sick of every part of it: the sorting, the washing, the drying, the folding. I’m sick of walking up and down those stairs with a heavy basket, emptying pants’ pockets of loose change, and forever having to unroll socks that someone just balled up and threw in the basket.
I am done .
Okay, maybe not *done-done*, but I’m definitely not doing any laundry today.
Do I have the time? Sure. But does that mean I’m going to subject myself to that kind of torture? Certainly not.
Instead, I’m going to do what we all do: I’m going to keep piling dirty clothes on top of the basket until it’s a mountain of wrinkled shirts and pajama pants, and then I’ll wash it.
Like an adult.
