I walked into the closet this morning to hang hubby’s dry-cleaned shirts and sighed in dismay, as I usually do. Our closet is a nice size and though it is not all styled-out and custom-beautiful as in, say California Closets, it is one of the better closets we have had to share during our twenty-plus years together. It’s organized well enough that there is a clear demarcation line; my side and his side.
His side? It’s always in a certain state of….well….messiness. Not that I am a neat freak by any stretch. Point in fact; at this very moment there is a visible layer of dust on the coffee table in the living room. Still, all things considered, the disarray is fairly mild. It could be loads worse.
And there is that word.
This is the reason for my deep sigh, which is (shamefully) sometimes accompanied by an expletive (or two) when I am in the closet.
I’m working on it folks.
Loads. As in loads of laundry.
Maybe it’s because my knees are particularly cranky today or I’m trying to fight an infection… but today was an expletive day; only one (see, progress!).
I just did a mountain of laundry two days ago! How is it possible that his basket is completely overflowing… again! Moreover, how is it that one man could produce so much laundry on a weekly basis?! I walk over to my side of the closet. Peering inside my pretty little laundry basket I count four items in it.
I all but growl with certain annoyance because, well…I loathe doing laundry.
I go back and grab my husband’s laundry basket and slowly walk down the stairs wincing in pain as my right knee practically shouts its displeasure over trying out a new workout yesterday; eight minutes of jumping rope.
As I angrily stuff clothes into the washing machine with far too much of a edge to my breath I realize two things:
Firstly, I could be on hands and knees washing clothes in a bucket…or a river or dirty lake ….and/or hanging my personal items high from a tangle of wires from outside the window of my ramshackle-of-a-room located on the fifth story of a dilapidated building that often has no electricity…
and, secondly, but for the Grace of God, I could be sans husband, which naturally signifies that my laundry loads would be reduced by more than half.
That flash of realization causes me to stop for a nano second. I then feel a perceptible shift within me which causes me to relax. My jaw softens and my breath does too. I simply let go of the load that was building up inside me–the one that nearly had me cursing out aloud at my husband who, at that very moment, working from home, was on a conference call. He’s busting his tail and I’m belly-aching?!
Human….but not admirable.
Gently now–as if caressing a baby–I continue to load clothes into the washer. I mindfully reach for the bottle of detergent and even take a moment to breathe in the lovely fresh linen scent.
So yeah. I passionately dislike the never-ending, often daunting, routine of laundry. But the alternative(s)–real and imagined are infinitely more frightening. I’m not saying I’ll whistle while I fold mountains of laundry but what I do know is that with every load, I’ll breathe in gratitude that I still am lucky enough to have this gem of a guy in my life.
There is bliss in that!