My name is Lisha. And I have a laundry problem.
I’ve mentioned my aversion to folding laundry before in passing, but I doubt any of you understood the extent of it.
It’s not unusual to find in my beautifully decorated master suite, several baskets of clean clothes lined up against the big dresser. I place them there so I don’t snag a toe on the basket during the night, and to obscure them from the view of passers-by upstairs. Because, while I’m ashamed of my little secret, I’m not yet ready to reform my ways.
The usual modus operandi for laundry goes like this:
A load of clothes gets put in the washer.
At some point Later that day it gets put in the dryer.
Eventually When dry, the hanging clothes are properly hung upon removal from the dryer to avoid wrinkles (we actually do that), and socks, underwear, t-shirts and the like get put in a basket and brought upstairs to fold and put away.
That’s where the process breaks down. After a couple of days of digging through the baskets for underwear and P.E. uniforms, the socks make their way to the bottom of the basket like pebbles on the river bottom.
And there they sit, until we have absolutely no socks left in our drawers, and I have no choice but to sort them.
I may need to consider a twelve-step program.