But this second one? I feel like it's more of a direct slap in the face of how I was raised.
You see, growing up one of the chores and often fell to Kali and me was folding laundry. And just to get this straight: I hated it. Almost as much as I hated dusting, which always fell to me because my sister played the "I have allergies and the dusting really stirs things up" card. Unfortunately her puffy read eyes and overall bedraggled look after dusting eventually sold it!
But folding? Yuck.
One reason I hated it so much was because, like most moms out there, my mom had an exact way that the folding needed to be done. A very exact way.
For example: towels? In half, then in half again, and then in thirds. [I can still hear her voice giving me those instructions…probably because she had to give them to me three times per folding session].
I gave up on trying to fold t-shirts right because, well, WOAH. That's hard. I usually was able to pass them off to Kali…I don't think she noticed that she folded ALL of them, right?
But here is the kicker, if you don't believe my sordid tale so far: Underwear? It had to be folded THREE times. UNDERWEAR?!
But those were the rules-- thrice-- and as long as I lived under that roof, my underwear, and whomever's underwear I happened to be folding, were folded three times and placed neatly in the drawer.
But now? Well, now I'm an adult. Now I live under my roof.
And now, my underwear drawer looks like this [except for the fact that I don't wear men's underwear-- this is courtesy of google images, thank you very much].
I don't expect Brent to live like this if he doesn't choose to, so his underwear gets folded.
But nearly every time I pull out a new pair from my mess of a drawer, it makes me feel liberated!
I know I could have rebelled against my upbringing in worse ways, so this one small act of defiance doesn't seem too terrible.