Laundry, of all of the household drudgery is the bane of my existence. Largely because it never ends. The same could be said of the cycle of meals and dishes, the bed making (yes, I do), and the assorted cleaning tasks, but somehow none of them feel as hard to wrangle and as mind-crushingly endless as the damn laundry.
So, despite my pledge to dedicate the entire day to my writing while Little Guy is at preschool, I found myself at various breaks in the action - cycling laundry. Sort, wash, dry, fold. Despite the fact that I just did laundry - what? yesterday? - the pile of darks was large enough that I could sort just the jeans for one load.
But later, when I was folding the jeans load, it felt suprisingly good. Why? Because everything in the load was the same. One category. Jeans, different sizes, different washes, but the same.
Fold them lengthwise at the legs. Fold them in half. Done.
I actually thought to myself - if only I could only fold jeans for the rest of my life - I would be so happy. I can't even begin to scratch at what this means about me.
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