Okay, if ever I doubted the fall of man here is incontrovertible proof that we live in a fallen world — Clothing. No I’m not talking about scandalous fashions. I mean clothing of all kinds. And the fact that we have to store it, sort it, and switch over closets full of the ridiculous stuff at least twice a year.
Ever since Adam and Eve donned the first fig leaves, we women have borne the burden of clothing. Back when we talked about laundry, I begged you all to just do it and not to be babies about it. But that was just about the washing and drying, the folding and putting away. That had nothing to do with what I consider the real burden of clothing, which is the storing, the sorting through, and the bi-annual switching over of the closets and dresser drawers.
Can I tell you how much I hate this job? Well, your first clue might be the fact that I called it a bi-annual job. As in, I only do it twice a year — in the spring and in the fall. I think a better woman than I (read: not such a baby) might break up this task into four smaller jobs and do it every season change. I prefer to do it only twice a year and complain about it three times as much.
So yes. I have made some progress. I have grown up a bit. I am no longer a baby about the laundry, but I will readily admit that I am a baby about this job. A big baby.
This weekend, the closets are calling to me and I am doing my best to block my ears. There’s an unmistakable nip in the air and nighttimes are downright frigid, but Baby Daniel is surviving with a single pair of footed pajamas and Raphael is making do with a super-snug pair of size 24m thermals with pant cuffs that ride up to his knees and a top that exposes his toddler belly.
Does anyone like to rummage through storage bins in the attic and switch over closets? If I didn’t have a husband to answer to, I would seriously pay someone a scandalous amount of money to do this for me. I figure it’s either that or making the move to disposable clothing.
Don’t look at me like that. I wore a paper dress once at the doctor’s office and it wasn’t half bad. “Just put on the paper pants,” I’d tell any kid who dared to complain. “Stop being such a baby.”