My Husband, the Launderer

The Greek God(zilla) did the laundry last night.

I KNOW!

I should be happy, right?  After all, I have been complaining ever since I started working from home that my husband has seemed to forget where the kitchen even is.

But it actually made me feel pretty cross.

Not because I have secretly grown to love sorting delicates from cottons and red socks from white.

Nor, because I particularly enjoy pulling all the wet clothes out of the machine and hanging them out efficiently on the airer.

Or even because he was denying me the thrill of watching the clothes dry, while an endless conveyor belt of socks backs up in a damp heap at the bottom of a plastic laundry bag.  Or, the satisfaction of folding clean t-shirts and transporting them upstairs to the ironing pile, where they are placed to rest until they are either requested to be worn again, or forgotten about entirely.

It was none of those things.

I was cross because he had beaten me to it.

Because I was just about to do that wash myself, but had wanted to quickly change out of the white top I was wearing first, so I could add it to the pile.

That our son has 4 white t-shirts and all of them needed to be cleaned.

And, he was messing with MY system.

Yes, I have a system.

It involves each set of laundry to complete a full cycle of being washed, dried and folded before starting on the next one.

Each load must be full and incorporate at least one item of dirty laundry from each family member.  For example, one 2-hour session could not be used entirely for the Greek God(zilla)’s cricket whites.

My jumpers need to be shaken out and reshaped while still wet.

Small people’s clothes can be hung on the lower racks.  Heavy jeans on the top rail.

I do not like duvet covers being draped to dry over stair banisters or dusty door tops.  I do not like to see all my knickers lined up on the radiator.  Even worse, the Greek God(zilla)’s pants.

I also do not like to air my dirty laundry when we are expecting company, or cooking fish.

I prefer to start a wash cycle in the morning, so it has time to complete before Eastenders/bedtime.  

Bright colours must always be washed separately.

I heard myself say all of this to him OUT LOUD and as I huffed off, 3 things became very clear to us both:

1. I have become THAT person.

2. I will never be able to complain to the Greek God(zilla) about him not pulling his weight again.

3. He was right.   He really cannot win.

*****

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