Somebody dared touch my holy laundry system

C

all me a perfectionist, call me rigid, call me whatever you choose, but don’t touch my holy laundry system.

I remember, with a sniff of incredulity, the time when Sunday was Laundry Day. Once a week, I would neatly sort the laundry from the hamper — darks, whites, colored. I would collect all the towels from around our cozy little apartment. I would strip the linens. And I would advance from cycle to cycle, until every last sock was washed, dried, folded, (ironed?), and neatly returned to its drawer. It was a full-day project, and the only other thing I could accomplish on that sacred day was supper for two.

Ha. Ha ha ha ha ha.

Imagine doing laundry only on Sunday. That would be like inviting Motzaei the Nine Days to the house on a weekly basis.