I tend to put off doing laundry until it becomes absolutely necessary. This happens every three weeks or so. The moment of recognition typically comes when one morning I wake up, go through the typical ritual of rooting around in the laundry basket for a clean pair of underwear in amongst the countless socks and wrinkled t-shirts, and find one but only after like five solid minutes of searching.
With a sinking heart I then realize this is the last pair of clean underwear. There is no more clean underwear here. There is no more clean underwear anywhere. And the thing is, I can wear dirty socks, if need be. I don’t give a shit. And I can handle an unwashed t-shirt. Underwear, though? Even I have my limits.
By the time I’ve run out of underwear, of course, the sheer mass of dirty clothing – both the underwear and everything else that could stand to be cleaner – is staggering and absurd. Doing my laundry therefore becomes a drawn-out day-long process of dread alternating with boredom. And it’s some serious bullshit.
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