Lots-o-laundry

When someone says that they have a mountain of laundry, people generally assume that they're joking. It's an exaggeration, funny because it's so absurd. No one is actually that lazy. They're obviously just kidding.



But yeah, I don't just have a mountain of laundry: I have an entire mountain range. Peaks of pajamas. Summits of skirts. I have so much laundry that over-privileged middle-aged adventurers are coming to climb the piles that now reside on my floor, just because they're there.



I used to do laundry when I ran out of socks or underwear. They were the limiting agents, so when I didn't have any more clean ones, I'd run a wash. But for years my mom's been giving me them for my birthday and Channukah, and I am now the Imelda Marcos of socks and underwear. So now there's no limit to how much I can push off doing it.



And the embarrassing part is that my apartment has an en-suite washer and dryer. I used to rationalize my laundry-laziness by saying that it was too much a hassle to use a laundromat, to spend $6 a week and to schlep a big bag of clothes a few blocks to use skeezy public amenities, where who knows is watching their own laundry. But no, now that I have my own washer and dryer half a metre away from my bedroom, the reason for my reluctance has become clear: I am one lazy girl.