Last year I discovered that releasing my frustration via a letter to objects that annoyed me helped a bit. It started with a letter to my student loans, and then, in a moment of hair pulling, occurred again in a letter to the drawer under my oven [which I'm happy to say is MUCH better in our new home].
Here is my letter today.
You stink. And I mean that quite literally at times. I hate everything about you. E.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g.
When clothes are on my body we have a good relationship. They cover up my thighs, they hide my untanned skin in the winter, they even provide me with a way to express a little style on rare occasion. But the moment I unzip the zipper or unbutton the button and take off said article of clothing, the loathing begins. For in that moment my clothes become laundry.
And Laundry, I must tell you, you have not endeared yourself to me over the years. You take such a long time. I used to try to shove as much of you as possible into the washer, but you found a way to strike back saying, "Ah HA! I want you to take longer and do more loads because I just won't get clean this way!" Bah-humbug.
On a day like today, when I had other chores that needed to be done before leaving for a basketball game, I just wanted to click my fingers and make you disappear. I wanted to just cram you back into the hamper and shut the door, forever severing our relationship. But you had taken things away from me! Precious and necessary things like socks and underwear and cleanliness. So I threw you in piles and you smiled at me, in your whites and colors and darks and linens and...there were SEVEN piles of you! You whispered discouraging falsities in my ear, saying I should have spent time with you last weekend. Well I'm here to tell you-- last weekend I spent time with my nephews and they are FAR cuter than you.
I hate you from the beginning of the separating to the loading of the machine....but I hate you most when you finish tumbling around in your warm little cocoon of a dryer. It is at this point that I wish you would realize I have suffered enough; that you would realize that I just want to be done with every ever-loving last piece of you. But no. You cry "Fold me! Fold me!" as if the torture chamber in my soul has not been prodded and poked enough for the day.
Laundry, oh Laundry, there truly must be a better way? I want to have a good relationship with you, I really do. But you just don't know when to quit, do you? You don't know when to throw in the towel...so you make me throw it in...and then you make me fold it...and then you make me put it away. Don't you see that this is getting a bit ridiculous and out of hand?
People have told me, Laundry, that you are supposed to be something I am thankful for; that I should be thankful to see you piling up as it is to remind me of the blessing I have in being able to clothe my body. Well, you've made your point. I hear ya. I'm blessed. Now would you please just go away?
Someone who can't afford a maid