Laundry Days

I loathe Laundry Day for many a reason.

First of which is I don't like being alone in the basement, where our washer and dryer are kept.

That's were ALL the bad things in scary movies happen- In the basement.

Where does Tar Man get unleashed and terrorize the freaky eighties goth kids? The basement.
Where does the little girl stab the crap out of her mother in Night of The Living Dead? The Basement.
Where does Morgan have an asthma attack cuz an alien grabbed him?
THE. FREAKING. BASEMENT.

Second, I do laundry alone.
I'm the only one home with free time who's tall enough to reach the washer. I don't mind doing it alone; solitude is good for meditation, relecrftion and it relieves stress for me. I prefer to be alone. However, it's not fun to meditate on whatever I think is hiding under the stairs this time, or peeking in the cellar window.

Third, As I put my laundry in I'm constanly reminded that I don't fit.
Sometimes I mistake my boxers and undershirts as belonging to the male members of my household. Other times the bras and lacey panties feel alien to me.

Don't get me wrong, I love having both of them. Because they support my "moods" when I need them to. They're a reminder I'm able to afford them, which is a good thing to be thankful for nowdays- a job. More so that I can get one at my age.

But sometimes even I feel that it's strange, holding the bra and the boxers and feeling as if I have to make a choice.