Laundry, aliens and the Dude

laundry dayEvery Saturday morning I hand over my dirty clothes to my robotic assistants named “Washman” and “Dryman.” They do their thing and produce clean, dry laundry.

Like any good assistant, they like to take initiative. Sometimes they add things to my laundry, like holes and static cling. Sometimes they remove things, like socks and small towels.

Although I have never been able to catch him in action, I believe Dryman has an agreement with aliens to send them my clean, unpaired socks. I think one time I heard a whisper “Beam me up, Scotty.” Although I can’t be sure, it was a windy day and I might have been napping.

I’ve got my eye on you Dryman, someday your sneaky moves will be caught on camera! And then… well, then I’ll go buy new socks… as I always do.

Resigned to the fact that I am destined to keep replenishing the alien sock supply (I now kindly think of it as a tithe)  I listen for the annoying buzzer that signals cycle completion. After waiting for my heart rate to return to normal – that buzzer is  darn loud, I unload Dryman and place the fresh, clean and sometimes clingy laundry on my living room armchair.

Then I wait… and wait… and wait… wishing… hoping… praying that some little elves will come and fold it for me…

It never happens.

No matter how hard I try to channel my inner Samantha Stevens or Jeannie, no matter how much I wiggle my nose or blink my eyes, the laundry mountain only grows. Soon it becomes so high that it topples and falls onto the floor. Then I carefully walk around the newly formed laundry lake, still hoping for the laundry elves to appear.

When I was younger these elves existed. They were called parents. I did not appreciate the joy of having such elves, they were bossy and created things like curfews and homework checks.

When I grew up, I got a job, moved out and discovered freedom. I could do what I wanted, when I wanted and with whom I wanted. It was fun at first.

But then I learned, there is a price for independence, it is called: laundry. And it never goes away. Ever.

Except for single socks. Those go away… weekly.

Oh well, “the Dude abides.”

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