Today I may have stepped firmly into the land of crazy. I did laundry all day and loved every minute of it. You’re shaking your head right now, thinking, “It’s a pity she’s lost her mind. She seemed so … normal.”
Laundry is something I only do so I’ll have clothes to wear to work during the week. Because, honestly, is there anything more boring than sorting and folding clothes? No. Okay, maybe cleaning the bathrooms. But, as of today, hot damn & hallelujah, I have a clothesline.
My husband, bless his city boy heart, put up the clothesline this morning that’s been in the garage for two years. (I was very patient while he came to terms with the whole clothing flapping in the breeze thing.) Our agreement is that there will be no underwear hanging out for the neighbors to see. Fair enough. But there will be towels and sheets that smell like summer, and dresses that float on my skin, tee-shirts that go on crisp and soften with body heat.
Who needs yoga when I can stand in the sun and stretch from my toes to fingertips and bend deep to get another towel from the basket? Geese fly overhead twice a day, calling to the earth as they go. Ladybugs land on towels and have to be carried off to a shady tree so they won’t get folded into the linen cupboard.
Hanging laundry on the line is a simple pleasure. The small amount of extra time doesn’t seem like work, but rather like an escape to a place where I breathe a little more deeply and smile a whole lot more. Crazy? Who cares?