Scenes from a marriage (1)

[muckefuck]

I don't know if I'm so fastidious about preparing my garments for the wash because that's just how I was as a child and I never outgrew it or if it was pounded into my head by my beleaguered mother, stuck with the lion's share of the housekeeping despite being the chief breadwinner. I zip zippers. I turned printed t-shirts inside-out. I turn out pockets (and when I forget to, I often regret it). monshu, as far as I can tell, learned to do none of these things. I suppose for the first half of his life no one demanded it, and after that, he was always doing his own laundry, so what did he care at what stage any of this happened? His clothes hit the hamper exactly as they left his body.

With the division of labour we have now, he does the finances and I wash the clothes. It's a pretty fair deal, but at 9 p.m. on a Sunday when I've already had to do the washing up after dinner and I'm waiting on the last of the clothes to dry so I can pull them out and put them away, it doesn't feel that way. At those moments, when confronted with a shirt turned half inside out with the sleeve bunched up, I have three basic options:

1. Aggressive: Confront him; tell him how I want him to fix his clothes before they come to me.
2. Passive: Ignore it; just do the job and put everything to rights myself.
3. Passive-aggressive: Do neither; fold everything exactly at it comes to me.

Naturally, I've been practicing option #3 for some time now. I don't know how long exactly. I made the decision in a fit of pique and I've recommited myself every week thereafter.

Naturally, the Old Man said nothing. Until Saturday, as I was helping him get dressed to leave the hospital. Forgetting for a moment my mute vow, I pulled a turtleneck from his bag and remarked,"This is inside out."

"That's the way you do them all nowadays," he replied phlegmatically.

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