I have a confession to make. I hate doing laundry.
OK, it isn't exactly front-page news, but I will literally go for months without doing a single load, choosing to buy a few pairs of underwear and shirts here and there to prolong the inevitable. I hate the process of having to switch my clothes from washer to dryer and remembering all the detergent and dryer sheets each time. It just seems like such a hassle.
Nevertheless, every so often laundry can't be avoided any longer. Usually this arises from an impending trip or location change. So this past weekend, I mustered up the energy to wash my clothes before spring break.
While I truly hate having to spend a handful of Eaglebucks and wasting hours folding shirts and rearranging my already overstuffed drawers and closet, laundry does have its benefits. Fresh sheets make bedtime a special treat, shrinking your stretched out jeans can make you either feel like a giant or newly minted model and rediscovering parts of your wardrobe is always a welcome surprise.
But sometimes the surprises can be less welcome. Finding the old T-shirt or polo borrowed from a former lover can make you regret you ever bothered to fluff and fold in the first place.
At the time it was a necessity. You couldn't slink home from his place in the outfit you wore the night before, so you grabbed one of his T-shirts. Showing up at your internship late is one thing, but doing so in a V-neck T-shirt is just not acceptable, so borrowing one of his polos was the best option at the time. Other times we wanted to keep the shirt or shorts our partner gave us to sleep in as sort of a souvenir or prize for the level of intimacy we reached.
I've written before about the sometimes strange outfits we must don to complete our morning-after walk of shame, but these shared articles of clothing are more intimate than our one-night stand's meager offerings. They indicate that our partner trusts us with his or her property. Though it might not have any particular special meaning to them, chances are we will not only associate it with him or her but with the particular night that preceded our required costume change.
The funny thing is that most of us would probably never considering wearing the clothes again, except perhaps in the privacy of our room. Some may quickly return the borrowed items, but most of us would feel uncouth doing so without at least washing them.
There lies my dilemma. When the period between laundry days is significantly longer than most of my relationships, has the appropriate grace period for return expired?
Sometimes the only thing we have left over when a relationship dissolves, besides an empty heart and bed, are these meager keepsakes. Some may harbor negative memories but most recall at least a wild and carefree night, no matter what daylight later brought. Can we discard these purloined mementos with a guilt-free conscience? Do they belong to one of us, or have they become neutral property? I couldn't tell you for sure.
So now his polo is folded carefully in my drawer. Like him, I know it doesn't belong in my life, but there doesn't seem to be any other place to put it. If I offer to bring it back, will it be seen as a gesture of interest, of hostility or just surrender? It might not be worth finding out.
Like his lips upon my neck or the grip of his hands on my arms, the feel of its cotton can't easily be erased or forgotten. Though it may be out of sight, it's hard to keep out of mind. The shirt is clean now, but it will never be innocent.
