The Nemesis

Others try to help: my husband, my mother. I don’t stop them. I’m not an insane person. But they will never know you like I do.

You are not a job to be done; you’re a character in the novel of my life. The antagonist. The villain. The Nemesis. 

We are doomed for each other; opponents locked in an unwinnable battle.

It wasn’t always this way. You were once a chore like any other. I’d address you when needed. You hadn’t taken on your many-tentacled shape until more recently. Would you agree that it was baby three that got us here? All those tiny onesies and socks carrying you into your power as a worthy foe? 

Of course, once baby four came along, you became maniacal. Or was that me? I did become that woman sticking pins with red thread into conspiracies that make no sense. My husband might find me in our basement at midnight, rocking back and forth on my heels, waiting up for you. Or I might tip in the other direction, letting you pile and molder for days. 

Because I hate you so intensely, I find it hard to accept help. If a visitor washes our dishes, I thank them. We outsource our floors. 

But when it comes to you, Laundry, I’m locked into a battle of wills. I am the one who must face you, the Harry Potter to your Voldemort. Others try to help: my husband, my mother. I don’t stop them from washing a load or folding a basketful. I’m not an insane person. (I’m sure it’s totally well-adjusted to spend hours dedicating an essay to a personified chore.) But they will never know you like I do. I know exactly how hot I need to set the machine to disinfect whatever shape you’ve taken. I know whose tiny underpants are whose. I know which socks will never be matched again. I know you, Laundry.

Sometimes, I’m so unhinged focused on you that I forget to see my family. Instead of the unique individuals I love, I see five paper dolls stumping through our house wearing five sets of soon-to-be-laundry. Each night, the paper dolls shed their scuffed paper shirts and pants. Each morning, they deliver a new set of pajamas. The dolls are voracious – they always need new paper coverings. One runs naked through the halls every morning shouting “MOM, I DON’T HAVE ANY PANTS” because he never has any pants. Because his pants are always in dirty or clean laundry baskets. Because you have turned my life into this one child’s basket-pants.

I see him in thirty years, a grown man, running naked through the streets shouting, “PEOPLE, I DON’T HAVE ANY PANTS.” I see him getting arrested. I see him, life ruined, because I could not let go of our battle enough to empower him to figure out his own damn pants situation. I had to keep fighting, keep sticking to my systems. I’ll watch it all unfold on the television as I carry on our fierce battle. A battle that, to anyone else, might look like the banal folding of small pants.