I hate housework. I hate everything about chores. The time it takes, the repetitive monotony, the cleaning up after other people, the smell, the dirt, splinters, the paper cuts, all of it.
But, most of all, I hate laundry. The washing and drying part isn’t so bad. It’s the folding and putting away that gets me. It’s like making a bed every morning. You’re just going to sleep in it again in a few hours, seems like a waste of time. Same thing folding clothes. You’re only going to get them wrinkled again, why bother?
Confession: I usually just make my peeps dig for socks and underwear in a phalanx of laundry baskets hidden behind the living room sofa. There are overflowing heaps of unpaired socks languishing in obscurity. Wads of dress shirts on endless dry cycles to keep down on the creases and crinkles in the fabric.
The only aspect that is remotely redeeming about doing laundry is the occasional payoff.
I’ve told the peeps, if they leave money in their pockets, I get to keep it.
I almost have enough saved for a new car.
I’m grateful for:
- Peeps who forget to clean out their pants pockets
- A house I can complain about having to clean
- Crisp, clean dollar bills