I find laundry to be so much simpler with just Miles and me. Not the volume, the volume of it isn’t an issue—is laundry ever completely done anyway?—leastwise not if one remains clothed throughout the event. (Did I just say leastwise?)
No, it’s the separating the folded laundry into the appropriate piles that ruins my efficiency. I feel like an optometrist adding lenses during an eye exam. “Better now? Or, better now?” as my wrist snaps a pair of socks from one pile to another. “Better now? Or, better now?” as I break a sweat over a pair of men’s jeans.
I’m not too shabby with my own laundry, if I do say so myself. I seem to have a fairly decent grasp over what I’ve worn. It is a splendid moment when I fold a shirt, wonder, “Better now? Or, better now?” as I deliberate the pile placement, and am able to declare thunderously, “Now! Better right now!” as the garment hovers over my pile. For the most part, I’ve got good accuracy with my mother’s clothing as well. Now that I’ve observed that Dad only wears the yellow and the blue garters, I should be at 100%.
Yes, laundry with my husband is much easier. It’s either mine, or it isn’t. That, and, I don’t use garters—so I can, with great confidence, place all of them in Miles’ pile and be done with it.