My wife does almost all the laundry in the home, but for the record, I did almost all of the laundry the four years that we lived in apartments together, and I am still willing to help out with the laundry whenever needed.
Those were four good years of laundry, too. I learned to fold shirts and pants according to her exacting specifications (she worked briefly at Abercrombie and Fitch and the rules stuck), separate items according to color and fabric and remember to use a dryer sheet more than half of the time.
Despite these better than average skills, my wife routinely declines my offers to help with the laundry.
In fact, earlier this week I attempted to surprise her by folding an exceedingly large load of clothing and wash and dry two others. I also packed up all the clothing in the laundry room and transported it to the bedrooms to be put away.
I was feeling pretty good about myself.
When she came home and realized what I had done, I did not receive the appreciative hug and kiss that I had expected. Instead I was greeted with a look of suspicion and a thorough examination of my laundry progress.
It’s amazing how one or two shrunken sweaters can leave a woman bitter after so many years.