Tuesday, December 14, 2010

Lost in a Sea of Laundry

Many of you consider me a manly and masculine person, if not downright macho and virilea mountain of manhood, if you will. I don’t want to disabuse you of this idealized notion of me, based, I should add, on grains of truth. I suppose you think this because of my hirsute face, my membership at a gym, or perhaps because I carry a concealed weapon with me wherever I go, namely my customized, deluxe Rambo combat knife with sawed teeth and made of D2 steel. However, I’m a regular guy, just like youwell, if you’re a guy, that is.  Yes, though I can pack a punch, I'm a domesticated animal.  In fact, I’m comfortable enough in my ginormous manhood to concede that I regularly perform domestic duties, a case in point being laundry.

What with living with four females, the laundry in our house gets so overwhelming sometimes.  Once my wife got a fulltime job as a high school teacher, laundry became one of my routine chores.  Back in the day, I'd go down to the basement, set up my laptop with a DVD, bring some snacks, and spend hours upon hours folding laundry.  A friend of mine is currently working on a machine that would fold clothes.  I wish him much luck.  As you know, anyone can just toss the frickin' clothes in there.  We have so much dirty laundry in this house, however, that the task of laundering is daunting enough even without the folding.

Take the other day, for instance, when I went down to the basement.  I was simply looking for my lavender footed PJs, as they had been missing for days.  This happens all too often: an article of clothing, usually a beloved article of clothing like my leopard-striped boxers or the aforementioned PJs, disappears for days or weeks on end, only to resurface magically in a laundry basket or inside the dryer. Anyway, the other day I couldn’t find my way out of the stacks and stacks, piles upon piles, of laundry. Caverns of dirty clothes engulfed me, caving in one me as I hazarded my way through the laundry wasteland looking for my precious PJs. I was suffocating and had to get out of there, but I just couldn’t find my way out. It was too dark. Fortunately two things happened. First, my cat ventured into the piles looking for mice or who knows what. I followed him as best I could, groping my way, until I could see a dim light in the distance. I spotted an opening!  With this renewed hope, I unsheathed by Rambo knife and started cutting myself loose from the bras, panties, socks, and towels that entangled me, all the while trying to put out of my mind the old adage, "brown in back, yellow in front."  Fortunately, I survived to fight another day.  I didn't find my PJs that day, but I learned a lot about myselfmy resourcefulness and will to live.