(This month’s prompt is Cleaning: Write about doing laundry, dishes, and other cleaning activities.)
I’ve always liked cleaning. Something about the process — clean mirrors first so drips don’t ruin a just-wiped counter, sweep then mop, wash dishes during cook time so you’re not left with a pile just before dinner — soothes my anxiety-riddled brain. Cleaning involves clear-cut steps, and takes you from a messy bathroom or kitchen to a sparkling one.
Doing laundry is my favorite. I love sorting things by color, running them through the washer and dryer, and bringing them out fluffy and sweet-smelling. Out of chaos, there is order.
My mother-in-law insists that there is a specific gene that determines whether or not you can fold clothes, and readily admits that neither of her children inherited it. So I fold, as well as wash and dry.
I like knowing that I can take care of myself. In college my suitemate found my roommate washing her underwear in the bathroom sink because she didn’t know how to use a washer or dryer. How do parents not teach their kids these things?
Doing laundry is also a way I show my husband that I love him and want him to look his best. I love it when he thanks me for what I do. Which must be hard sometimes, because I mock him mercilessly about his “wittle sensitive baby skin” and how we have to use the “free and gentle” stuff so his clean shirts don’t make him itchy.
And if there’s a better feeling in the world than sliding between clean sheets with freshly-shaved legs, I’ve yet to find it.
