In order to do laundry? You do the following things: Sort your clothes into piles. The piles are sometimes "dark" and "white" and sometimes "really dirty" and "could wait another couple of days." Then you take those clothes, and you carry them to a laundramat, where you then put the clothes into a box. You pour an amount of sticky liquid on top of them, choose a setting, put in quarters and then you have approximately forty eight minutes to do whatever the hell you want.
You could play tennis. You could read a book. You could commit highway robbery, as long as you're back in a little under an hour.
So then, you take your clothes and then put them into another box, and wait a full hour. The hardest work involved in doing laundry? Is carrying them and dropping them. Doing laundry is a lot like being a human claw-game.
You don't have to scrub it over a washboard, or stir it in a vat of boiling lye, or even really touch it that much. You pick it up, you carry it, you dump it, you wait. Then you pick it up, you take two steps, you dump it, you wait.
This is not a high impact sport.
But honestly, the level of dread that laundry inspires in me would make you think that I had to carry fifty pounds of it through enemy territory while linebackers on PCP tackled me from trees and screamed like pumas in my ear.
I hate laundry maybe even more than I hate meatloaf. This is to say, quite a goddamned lot.
But I've reached That Point. You know the one? Where your room is suddenly a hilly place, with mounds of clothes ranging from 'burn me now, I carry pestilence' to 'hey! look! it can stand on it's own!' and you find yourself squinting at a pair of ill-fitting jeans with a mustard stain on the knee, and a shirt that's two sizes too small and missing a button, and wondering if you wear a tank top underneath it, and ratty sneakers with the jeans, maybe you'll look punk instead of just unkempt.
In my mind, I've swept my room, vacuumed my carpet, cleaned my surfaces, and changed the light bulbs all over. In reality, I've sort of -- waved my hands in the general direction of all of these things and said "Room, heal thyself" and "Clothing, launder thyself."
Shockingly? This is not working.
It's at moments like these I realize my grandparents had several kids a piece at my age, and then I shudder to think of anyone entrusting a human being to someone anything like me. Seriously, if I had children right now? I wouldn't even know it, they'd be lost in the slew of despond that is my overflowing closet.