When they’re still, my dogs look very much like stuffed animals, their fur so soft, and shining in the soft light of the bedroom. Each of them is curled up on top of a pile of folded laundry, their idea of “helping” as I fold it. I don’t mind the flattening – saves ironing – but I wish they’d lay on outerwear instead of underwear.
This is how laundry folding works in my house: I do it on the bed, sitting in the center of it, with a movie playing on the dvd player across the room. I set the hanging stuff aside, and fold everything piling things in a circle around me. When a pile gets too high, I get up and fill drawers. Every so often, I write a blog entry, or read one, or chat with someone on IM, or just get pulled into the movie.
We both have enough clothing that, if we wanted, we could go two weeks without HAVING to do laundry, but on the rare occasions when busy lives had forced us to do so, we’ve been wearing the clothes we don’t particularly like at the end.
Tonight, folding laundry is grounding me, but it’s also disappointing me. All three pairs of my comfy sweatpants are too big, and falling apart, and I can’t justify keeping them. Ditto the stack of leggings I use as loungewear under sleepshirts, or as exercise wear with big comfy t-shirts.
I work from home, so I don’t particularly NEED a lot of fancy clothes, and actually, comfortable attire is better when I’m writing. In fact, as I write this I’m wearing the pink and grey striped sleepshirt that Fuzzy gave me for my birthday, and my hair is braided in two pigtails. I look about twelve.
But my two laundry helpers don’t care, as long as I scratch them behind the ears every so often.