On laundry day, I feel like I could be POTUS.
The chore is a Level Ten on my executive function scorecard. I mean, think of all it entails:
- being dressed and showered enough to be presentable in the hallway
- stripping my bed and/or sorting clothes
- refilling the account on my laundry card
- which likely means finding my password again because I go long enough between trips that it signs me out
- setting timers
- adhering to timers
- freaking out about whether someone will get there first and dare to touch my clothes
- determining which items go into the dryer and which come back to my apartment to hang out
- accidentally throwing a Swiffer sheet into the dryer instead of a dryer sheet and having to run back down the hall to make it right
- folding/hanging things up/redressing the bed
- THE IMMINENT DUVET COVER FRACAS
Doesn’t it exhaust you just reading about it?
If I had laundry units in my apartment (the dream scenario of all big-city renters, no?) I think things would be different. It would eliminate 1, 2, 3… at least 5 of these bullet points!
And as a bonus, the company that runs my laundry card account would stop sending me passive aggressive emails:
- “Your laundry room misses you”
- “Wash your bedroom items weekly!”
- “Don’t let that laundry pile up”
- “You can still be productive during the big game”
- “Tips to smelling fresh for Valentine’s Day” — *sniffs underarm*
At least when our building switched to a card instead of coins, I could eliminate the cumbersome “drive all the way to the bank in real clothes to get quarters” bullet point.
But in all seriousness, laundry day is a triumph. I limp by with hand-washed batches of underwear between these red-letter days, but it’s not the same as having a closet full of soft, fragrant clothes. And the constant Febrezing of my skating bag only gets me so far before the bag is mistaken for that of a hockey player by keen figure skater noses.
It’s always been this way. It’s not because I wasn’t forced to do the chore more as a kid, and it’s not because I’m lazy. It’s because my brain finds these minor stresses less surmountable than the average brain.
My inherent rigidity means that merely sorting my clothes is a task with a million rules unique to me. (Frustratingly, even with an offer of help, I would be hard-put to delegate.)
My aversion to the common spaces of the building makes every chore that involves crossing my threshold (see Article 2.9B – Taking Out the Trash) a daunting one.
My compulsive counting down to scheduled “events” makes it hard to do anything productive between trips to the laundry room.
So when I do laundry. It’s a time to celebrate. It’s a time to shave my legs and kick them under the crisp, fresh sheets (my favorite sensation!). A time to indulge in how well my once stretched out jeans suddenly hug my legs and smell nice. It’s a time to pat myself on the back for a day where I managed Level Ten functioning.
Fresh laundry reminds me I’ve done much bigger things in spite of my challenges. I’ve written books. I’ve painted paintings. I’ve won competitions. For me, tasks might be slower, clothes might get smellier… but I get there in the end.