I have a pair of cowboy boots that are older than my children. Unlike my kids, the boots have been through a lot of sh*t and never complained. I also have clothes left over from the industrial revolution. I can’t throw away perfectly good culottes, just because they’re missing a button. Recently, I’ve fallen far behind on my laundry, which has engendered the sentimental journey from hell.
Following the methodology of modern archaeological excavation, I have been digging my way to the bottom of my closet, rediscovering lost treasures. Unfortunately, the hoochie shorts, rompers, and crop tops that I’ve uncovered were apparently owned by a civilization of Victoria’s Secret runway models. There is not a single pair of size four jeans that could even make it up to my thighs, let alone past my multiple butt cheeks.
I don’t know what perverse stubborn streak has caused me to forgo washing clothes in favor of searching through leg warmers and satin blouses with linebacker shoulder pads. It should be no contest: fluff and fold, or search for 30 year old drawstring pants?
Even though I went through the change of life two years ago, I’ve found a stack of period underwear carefully hidden under my Yellowstone sweatshirt. Damn! It seems kind of pointless now to have a panty burning party. Besides, the bonfire would probably just spark an epidemic of hot flashes between me and my friends. As I write this, the dryer is buzzing a merry tune to tell me that my husband will not be forced to squeeze into any of my ancient undergarments.
Yes, this depressing little adventure in anthropology has convinced me to sort delicates from sturdy cottons and unfold the drying racks. I’m checking pockets on the generous size jeans and hanging the extra support bras to dry. Just don’t tell my husband that I put the period underwear back under the sweatshirt. He doesn’t need to know that he’s just one load away from certain humiliation.