Sunday, December 11, 2011


It's kind of an ordeal for me.

My parents used to nag me about doing laundry all the time. "DO LAUNDRY ONCE A WEEK. HOW MANY TIMES DO WE HAVE TO TELL YOU?" The answer was always "clearly at least once more, although if your bellowing were justified I might actually listen."

To this day I do not know why my parents are so emotionally invested in my washing clothes in a timely manner.

For one thing, they aren't their clothes. They are not the one who have to resort to those ugly socks with no elastics left or that shirt that's too short or those cheap ugly jeans. It does not affect them even a little. In fact, they might allow themselves to get a kick out of the fact that my laziness is coming back to bite me in the ass. But no. They must nag me.

For another thing, my parents don't know what I wear. They don't seen to realize that I wear pajamas at night, sweats in the morning, jeans when I tutor, hott stuff out, and exercise clothes to dance. Yes, I have not washed clothes this week, but I have also not worn anything long enough to merit the DIRTY label.

Now, what I CAN understand is the way I wash clothes being annoying. I always separate my loads into Light and Dark, so it takes at least two rotations for me to get finished with the washer and dryer.

Then there's the fact that 80% of my clothes do not get put in the dryer; I hang things up with those great clip hangers so they won't shrink or get noticeably less soft, so there are usually about 30 fewer available hangers when I do laundry.

I have been known to leave my clothes hanging in inappropriate places, for instance, the edges of the bar or possibly the living room mantle. I have also been known to leave them drying there for slightly longer than necessary, i.e. two or three days.

But still, taking all of this together you would think my parents might have APPRECIATED my procrastination. The fewer times I did laundry, the more often they could rest easy knowing they weren't going to wake up to the fifteenth coming of my camisoles in the kitchen.

But no. They must nag me, something I will probably never understand until I have a stubborn daughter of my own, and at the moment I can't see understanding even then. But you never know. It could happen.

Now, of course, I am seventeen, and much to old to do childish things like put off laundry until I have three loads to do and must resort to borrowing my sister's underwear.


*wince* Okay, well, at least we wear the same size.


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