I just hung a clothesline. Back in my corporate life, in my air-conditioned cube with a peek-a-boo view of the sky, in front of my email and word docs and spreadsheets, I used to fantasize about having a clothesline. Warm sun, warm breeze, wholesome clean clothes.
I had to hang the clothesline in the dog run. Where the puppy is supposed to poop. Luckily, he’ll have none of that, so there’s a perfect clothesline-alley next to our house.
It isn’t actually raining at the moment, so I hung my first load of laundry. What a pain in the ass.
I do a lot of housework now. The college girl of me, the one who took all those Women Studies classes, is nonplussed.
The other day, after an impressive pee accident (not mine or my partner’s), I was changing the sheets. I wondered: would I rather be sitting at a meeting at work, or would I rather be manhandling fitted sheets? And the unequivocal answer was that, for now, I was completely content making beds.
It’ll be even better when the sheets are sun-dried on my new clothesline.
