Photo courtesy of AllPosters
On October 4th, Mikey and I will have been married for three years. I’ve said this before, and I’ll say it again. No matter how long we’ve been together, there are always new things to learn about each other. And after almost three years of marriage and nine years of dating (or “going out” as we used to say in middle school), I have learned that my husband should not be allowed to do laundry.
Now, you might be wondering why it took me three years to figure this out. It’s called denial. It’s the idea that you can teach your husband how to separate the dirty clothes into whites, lights, darks, light delicates, dark delicates — and if the past week’s worth of dirty clothes permits — brights. On top of that, there’s the corresponding factors for each sorted laundry pile. Like whether to wash a load in permanent press, gentle cycle, normal cycle. And if you’re on the extreme end of the spectrum, there’s temperature. Whites, towels and sheets should be washed in hot water. Delicates in cold water and yadda yadda yadda.
Again, it’s the idea that you can teach your husband these things. An idea that just shouldn’t exist because for me, it never happened. After one too many brand new clothes I had just purchased were shrunk and unraveled at the hand of Mikey’s inaccurate sorting methods, I decided to take laundry duty into my own hands. So as of September 1, 2011, laundry will eternally be on my to-do list.
The result? Mikey couldn’t be happier.
You see, in a relationship such as ours, you just come to realize what each other’s strengths are. He likes to watch football. I like to shop. He’s good at killing spiders. I’m good at pointing at them and screaming. He’s good at reaching the top shelf casserole dishes (that I otherwise have to climb on the counter to get). And I’m good at, well, not shrinking clothes.
So the moral of the story is that the key to a happy housewife is to keep her clothes in tact. And to do the damn laundry yourself.
Photo courtesy of The Vintage Housewife