Another day. Another mountain of clothes waiting patiently for their turn in the washing machine. How can there always be a pile? Didn’t I just finish an entire laundry cycle approximately 2.7 seconds ago?
At this point, I am convinced clothes reproduce in the dark. There is no other explanation.
After spending a suspiciously long amount of time negotiating with my brain cells about whether this is really the right moment to do laundry, I finally surrender to my fate. Like a tired little factory worker stuck in an endless shift, I begin the ritual:
Empty the laundry bag. Pour the detergent. Set the timer. Press start.
And off it goes.
Every single time, my brain cells make the same mistake. They think:
“Great. Once this is done, we can finally relax.”
Cute. Delusional. Embarrassing, honestly.
Because before I even process the fact that I’ve completed one task, the washing machine starts beeping aggressively from the corner like an underpaid manager demanding the next deliverable.
The beep doesn’t even sound polite anymore. It sounds personal.
It’s basically yelling:
“I’m done, babe. Your turn. AGAIN.”
And somehow, despite being a literal appliance, it always wins the argument.
So now begins Phase Two:
The Great Drying Ceremony.
I drag the wet clothes out dramatically like I’ve returned from war. One by one, I aggressively flick each piece open before hanging it on the drying rack with the intensity of someone performing an exorcism. And naturally, this is the exact moment my OCD decides to make a guest appearance.
Every cloth pin must be placed at the same angle.
Equal spacing.
Visual symmetry.
No chaos.
Apparently my brain cannot tolerate uneven cloth pin placement, but it can tolerate emotional exhaustion. Fascinating priorities.
Anyway. After hanging the final sock with the precision of a structural engineer, my brain cells and I walk back inside feeling deeply accomplished. Victorious, even. Why is nobody giving me an award for this again?
But thanks to the heat in this country, the clothes are already dry. Immediately. Before I can even sit down.
And suddenly I’m standing there again, staring at the drying rack like:
“How is it already time to fold clothes? Didn’t we JUST survive the washing part?”
Which brings me to the chair.
You know the one.
Not a regular chair anymore. No. This chair has evolved. It has transcended furniture. It now exists as a premium interior décor installation dedicated to ‘clothes that are not dirty enough for laundry but not clean enough for the cupboard.’
At this point, I’ve stopped fighting it. I’ve started appreciating it aesthetically.
The chair adds character to the room.
Texture.
Layers.
A lived-in vibe.
Sometimes I lovingly place clothes on it like I’m curating an exhibition.
A couple of t-shirts here.
A pair of jeans there.
Maybe a towel casually thrown over the edge for dramatic effect.
Minimalism could never.
Honestly, if a guest walks in, I want them to think:
“Wow. Such depth. Such storytelling. Such fabric.”
Nobody warns you that adulthood is just moving fabric between different locations in your house forever.
Laundry basket.
Washing machine.
Drying rack.
Chair.
Bed.
‘The backup chair.’
Back to laundry basket.
A beautiful cycle.
At this point, I don’t even think laundry is a chore anymore. I think it’s a psychological experiment. A test designed to see how many times a human being can wash the same pair of shorts before completely losing their sense of self.
Anyway, wish me and my exhausted brain cells luck. The machine just beeped again.
Until next time.
~S
From My Notes 
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