…had taken my new “job” very, very seriously.
Instead of just picking up his gym clothes, I decided to do a comprehensive wardrobe audit. Over the weekend, while he was out playing eighteen holes of golf to “unwind” from his demanding desk job, I gathered every single one of his custom-tailored, dry-clean-only power suits. I tossed them all into our washing machine.
But I didn’t stop there. I added his sweaty, bacteria-ridden gym clothes to the drum, set the water temperature to ‘Heavy Duty Sanitize,’ and let the machine do its worst. Then, I ran everything through the dryer on the absolute highest heat setting possible.
When he threw open his closet door at 6:30 AM, expecting his crisp navy Armani and freshly pressed shirts, he was greeted instead by a row of mangled, shrunken, pilled garments that looked like they belonged to a very formal, very sweaty toddler.
“Where are my suits?!” he gasped, frantically pulling out a formerly immaculate blazer that now barely reached his elbows. “What happened to my clothes?!”
I took a slow, deliberate sip of my coffee. The baby was finally asleep against my chest, and for the first time in days, I felt entirely at peace.
“I picked up your gym clothes, just like you asked,” I whispered, careful not to wake our daughter. “But I realized that managing the household laundry piecemeal wasn’t an efficient use of my time while you’re at the office. So, I consolidated. I’m afraid the Italian wool didn’t agree with your polyester gym shorts.”
His face went through a mesmerizing spectrum of colors—from pale white to a deep, blotchy purple. “I have my quarterly review today! I have to present to the board! What am I supposed to wear?!”
I gestured vaguely toward the laundry basket in the corner. “Well, your golf polos are clean. Or, I suppose you could wear the gym clothes. After all, you said picking them up gave me something to do. I’m sure the executive board will appreciate how efficiently our household is running now.”
He scrambled out the door twenty minutes later in a pair of wrinkled khakis and a sweater that was strictly meant for casual Fridays, frantically dialing a 24-hour dry cleaner that couldn’t help him.
When he came home that night, he didn’t say a word about the presentation. But from that Monday on, his sweaty gym clothes miraculously started making it directly into the hamper—and suddenly, he decided he was perfectly capable of doing his own laundry.
