romanticizing the laundry.
on the very real joy of having laundry in the building.
“We should all do what, in the long run, gives us joy, even if it is only picking grapes or sorting the laundry.”
- E.B. White
There are moments when laundry brings me something very close to joy. For me, that joy comes less in the doing than in the experiencing. Watching our freshly washed clothes billowing on the line at our old apartment was, almost always, mesmerizing. There was pleasant satisfaction in seeing how the wind moved whatever it was that was drying—lifting and billowing and sending the laundry waltzing on the breeze. On evenings when the waning summer sun made the bricks behind the clothesline glow golden, watching the laundry dry on the line was a show I never wanted to miss.
Just-washed laundry can offer a similarly joyful experience. Sliding in between clean sheets in the evening and snow-angeling my limbs across fabric that’s been freshly stretched across the mattress, not yet sullied by errant crumbs or wrinkles from restless nights, will, without fail or exaggeration, send a shiver of unbridled glee from my head straight down to my toes.
Doing the laundry, though? Sorting and folding and schlepping it to and from the laundromat? That’s not something I typically associate with joy. There is awe, certainly, particularly regarding the amount of filth a New York City playground can transfer to the seat of a child’s cotton shorts. There’s astonishment at how very hard it is to remember to turn socks right-side-out before putting them into the hamper. There’s baffled admiration at the speed with which a family of five can fill a hamper. Still, we’ve just moved into an apartment, where, for the first time in fifteen years, there are washing machines and dryers in the building. Dare I say, it’s been a joyful revelation.