Laundry, it never ends. I know that is redundant to say, and everyone has to do laundry, but man, do I ever hate it. The mere thought of it is enough to make me want to hide under a mountain of yet-to-be-washed clothes. It’s a never-ending cycle that seems to inhale my free time like a black hole. First, there’s the sorting. Separating whites, colors, and delicates feels almost like a game of textile Tetris, but with none of the fun and all of the frustration. Not to mention the mysterious socks that seem to disappear into the ether, never to be seen again (at least a lot of house elves are being freed).

Then comes the actual washing part. Loading the machine is a game of willpower, especially when you realize you’ve forgotten to check every single pocket. (Oh yeah, I found a packet of Pop Rocks in the 6 year old’s pocket yesterday. LUCKILY before the pants went in the dryer). The last thing anyone needs is a rogue tissue disintegrating into a thousand tiny pieces and sticking to every item of clothing like a bad rash.

As if that’s not exasperating enough, the dryer is ready to serve up a fresh helping of annoyance. Either it under-dries the clothes, leaving them damp and musty, or over-dries them, resulting in a static electricity party where no one is having fun. Folding might arguably be the worst part. It’s repetitive, monotonous, and somehow, no matter how many times I do it, I never get any faster. When I lived with my eldest sister during college, it was my job to fold the laundry and I totally get why now. That job is what always gets left. Everything is washed, warm mountains of wrinkle free clothes, that then settle into the baskets in the bedroom, and just seem to live there until it’s laundry day again.

It’s the sheer mundanity, the Sisyphean task of tackling yet another pile, over and over, that gnaws at my soul. I really need a wife/stay at home mom. -Tonya Cherry-