Chores and I don’t get along very well. Though I will do them, I usually need some sort of incentive, or a push to get going. This applies for nearly everything EXCEPT laundry. I hate pushing a vacuum around my carpets, getting onto my hands and knees to scrub the bathroom tiles, or cleaning out my fridge when something spills. BUT I have absolutely no issue with sitting on the floor and dividing my laundry basket into piles of darks, lights and colours, and a few hours later, lovingly folding all the fresh-smelling, clean clothes, socks, towels and bedsheets.
Laundry and I haven’t always been such good friends. When I first moved out of my parents house for university, I had no idea how to do laundry. Thankfully, one of my closest friends, Amanda and I had made the move together, and she was both my roommate and a very talented laundry-doer. Nothing ever shrank and no colours ever bled. I marveled at how beautiful everything looked when she restocked her drawers with clean, meticulously folded clothes.
After my first attempt at laundry left all of my whites a pale pink colour, Amanda stepped in. Apparently, when dividing up clothes, your new pink underwear should not go in with your white tank tops and socks. After a few lectures from Amanda, I got the hang of laundry.
When I moved into my first apartment the next year, I avoided laundry like the plague. Not because I couldn’t do it — I was now establishing an expertise — but because I lived in a sketchy building that had the laundry facilities barricaded in the stone basement of the building. Not only was my male neighbor often down there half naked, but my over-imaginative mind was convinced that there were dead bodies and killers hiding in at least one of the many padlocked rooms down there. I’m serious, it was extremely creepy. The friend I was living with, Carly and I would make pacts (“If I don’t come back in 5 minutes, call the cops.”) or just make the trip to the dungeon together.
This is what made moving to Toronto and living in a pleasant home with a backyard so wonderful. Though I only live on one floor of the house, our landlord is a lovely man who lets us use the backyard for barbecuing, or setting up lawn chairs to read, or hanging up my laundry.
I have come to actually enjoy getting up on Saturday morning and spending the day hanging my freshly washed clothes on the backyard clothes line that is slung up between our house and a telephone pole at the end of the backyard. I find the act of hanging them up, taking them down and lovingly folding them, extremely comforting. It’s like no matter how good or bad your week was, what you spilled, dropped or stumbled on, a little detergent and some sunlight will return your beloved clothes to their clean, fresh state; ready to take on the world again next week. (I’m channeling my inner Anne Shirley here!)
And that guys, was an entire blog post on laundry! Chelsey, out :).