I have a confession to make. I hate folding socks. So I just don’t do it.
This is my “sock basket.”
It’s where I stash all of my family’s socks after I’ve spent lord knows how many miserable minutes/hours/days folding a zillion loads of laundry and decide I no longer have the will nor the energy to match, fold, separate and put them all away.
Socks are such assholes.
They’re kind of like dating, come to think of it. A new pair of socks, like a new relationship, is so nice and fresh and just…fits. But after a while it fades, changes shape, and one eventually wanders off, never to be heard from again. There are a few pairs that stay together forever, and those are very special. They are also very rare.
But this blog is not an ad for eHarmony.com, so back to folding socks.
I know other people probably hate folding socks too, but I wonder if they, like me, have taken a stand against it altogether. I suppose it’s stubborn, maybe even irresponsible of me. I’m sure Big M silently curses me every morning when he’s rifling through that basket at 4 a.m. trying to match a Nike with a Hanes, and settling for a pair of Champions before he heads off to work.
But he’ll live. And he’ll probably continue to spend as much of his precious time folding socks as I do (none).
It isn’t just socks. I suck at folding clothes, in general. Shorts, tee shirts, underwear, sweatshirts– you name it, I’ve got it crumpled up in a ball somewhere in the back of a dresser or a closet.
I do try to keep the kids’ drawers neat, but those tiny onesies and footie pajamas kill me. One load of kids laundry contains a thousand little tiny articles of clothing. For every one adult-size tee shirt, you can fit like five kid-sized shirts into a regular load of laundry. That’s five times more folding, and five times more putting-away, and five times more unhappiness I feel while performing this dreaded task.
I’m not entirely ashamed of my laundry inadequacies. I have plenty of other desirable domestic attributes. I’m proficient at dishwasher-loading, scrubbing crayon off walls, wiping and disinfecting dog urine from the floor, whipping up a mean box of mac n cheese, and I can baby-wipe the hell out of ANY surface.
The thing I hate about the laundry is that it’s just so….never-ending. Before I’ve even finished separating whites from colors and putting delicates aside, I have another half load in the basket waiting to be washed. It seemingly forms out of thin air, even when no one else is around. It’s like my laundry room (hall closet) is haunted by some kind of prankster laundry poltergeist who feeds off my frustration for washing dirty clothes.
And you know who really pisses me off? Those people who claim to have a “laundry day,” as though any family accumulates just enough dirty clothes throughout the week to warrant one, single day devoted solely to the monotonous task of doing laundry. These people are either lying through their teeth or wearing the same outfit several days in a row to save on detergent or something. In my house, EVERY day is laundry day. Even if I haven’t actually placed anything in the washer or dryer on a particular day, I can guarantee that there is a load in the dryer waiting to be folded, a basket of clean, unfolded and likely wrinkled clothes waiting to be tripped over by some unsuspecting victim, and maybe even a damp, musty load hiding in the washing machine that needs another go-around to mask the icky stench of forgotten, wet laundry.
I’m also terrible at ironing. TERRIBLE. This is my version of ironing. I call it the “spritz and go” technique:
If that doesn’t do the trick I will just wash the wrinkled item and make a mental note to pull it out of the dryer immediately and then hang it up or put it on right away. But then I usually forget to do that and a backup outfit gets called in.
I can’t even blame my family, since I was a delinquent laundry-doer even prior to having kids. My laundry day used to occur when, and only when, I was completely out of clean underwear. Pause to recall your own single days before judging me, people. Laundry and hangovers do not mix, so it was a rare occasion when you would me find me slaving over baskets of unmentionables on my days off.
I know I need help. If only there were some sort of laundry rehabilitation center where I could learn to manage and cope with my lifelong laundry issues. Maybe some kind of support group where I could learn to appreciate the value of stain removal and quality fabric softener use; a place where people who never fail to bleach their whites or remove clothes from the dryer while they are still warm can show me how to properly care for my family’s precious garments.
Until then, however, I plan to continue allowing the dirty laundry basket to pile up to lengths taller than me, to stuff clothes into drawers well beyond their intended capacity, and to stockpile unfolded socks until the joyful day that my husband finally decides to step in and fold them himself.
But I definitely won’t feel good about it.