The Last Pair

The last pair of underwear.

The emergency backup pair. They’ve got holes in them. They’re so thin from wear and wash that you can almost see through them. So old you can’t remember not having them. They’re too embarrassing to admit to owning, but everyone owns a pair. They were a colour once but you don’t remember what it was because they long ago faded to the point of greyness. You don’t let your significant other see you in them, because they are strictly, utterly utilitarian, devoid of anything even remotely attractive about them. Completely unflattering.

But you keep them, because of that one terrible day when you’ll need them.

Laundry day.

The mere thought of it makes you shudder. So much work for so little point. Like shovelling clouds, or herding cats. Pointless. It starts with segregation. Sorting your clothes into arbitrary piles. Lights and darks. Cottons and blends. Tops and bottoms. Does it truly matter? They all get washed in the end. But society insists on the segregation of our clothes. And so we, sheeplike, do, imposing a racist interpretation of clothing on the hapless victims of the arbitrary and fickle nature of humanity.

Then you have to choose what kind of soap. Liquid or powder? Hot or cold? Which is it? Why bother? Toss them in, shut the lid, and hope, that’s the best we can do. Pray the Joe Punchclock makers of the machine knew what they were doing, and didn’t come into work hung over. Hope against hope it might work, because in the end, technology is fragile and subject to human error at every step. Including you. Which setting? How long? What temperature, in the name of all that’s holy? Why can’t the makers of clothing decide on one way to clean clothes, and design all clothes accordingly?

The wash, rinse, spin, rinse, spin cycle is next. Thumping and bumping and gyrating. And your clothes, soggy and wrinkled, and ostensibly cleaner than when they went in, come out and are tossed unceremoniously into the dryer. And yet another decision! Fabric softener or not? It’s FABRIC. It can’t get softer! It’s like people expect to put in clothes and pull out feathers! Into the dryer and another round of who really cares.

So again, the waiting. The dryer spins and spins and spins. Out come clothes that are hot and wrinkled. The folding, folding, folding. Making neat and flat in a futile attempt to create order from chaos. It’s only going to be unfolded and worn and wrinkled again!

The ironing. How I hate it. Running hot metal back and forth across the cloth, like some medieval form of clothing torture, pressing it into societally-imposed conformity. Ridding it of any interesting features. Making it flat, plain, boring, tidy, neat.

When it’s done, there is only relief. A momentary respite from the ongoing war. Tomorrow the battle begins anew. The enemy starts to amass their troops once more.

Starting with that last, traitorous pair of underwear.