Having to do my own laundry…and everyone else’s in the neighborhood from the looks of the piles.
I fold laundry on auto-pilot, relying on muscle-memory to get the job done. The only benefit to this task is that I can finally catch up on the television I missed for the last two years. Has anyone heard of Downton Abbey?
I did peel my eyes off the screen when I resurrected this number from the mountain of clothes waiting to find their drawers.
I gasped. My blazer. Sad. Misshapen. Teeny tiny.
(Apparently something similar happened to Freddie Mercury’s pants. This transition is universal.)
I wanted to blame someone for this tragic mishap. But there was no one. And I thought hard.
There are tags inside clothes to prevent these kinds of accidents:
Hot water wash is a no, I guess. But who has time to scrutinize? Sylvie was pushing buttons on the washer. Chloe needed a costume change and Noah was hungry…again. The pasta water was bubbling over, the dishwasher was playing the all-done tune, and the refrigerator door was beeping from being open for too long.
Or maybe I just didn’t check.
Rather than mourn the loss of my wool blazer, I passed it on to the real fashion maven in our house. And she wears it well.
Better than I did.
I didn’t think borrowing from mom’s closet would happen so soon. But I’m relieved she thinks I’m on-trend enough. I should probably relish that now because before long, she’ll no-doubt roll her eyes at my ensemble.
I’ll take this for a while:
Maybe this isn’t such a bad transition after all.