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Washing Day
Jul. 1st, 2008 04:46 pmThere is something immensely satisfying in doing the laundry.
It may be that I will be looking back on that sentence in a year's time, or even sooner, and shake my head at my earlier self. But the self that I am now has been washing various items of clothing and other washables since Friday evening, having two loads hanging on the line overnight (I figured if anyone needed a cheap towel, they might as well help themselves, but nothing was gone the next morning; an encouraging non-happening), and two Saturday morning. The weather was absolutely ideal, warm and sunny, yet windy, and my towels smell delightfully of the clean, fresh scent you can only get by letting them dry outside, and that no washing powder or fabric softener can imitate.
I had originally wanted to go out on Saturday, to catch a (free) concert of Shostakovich, but I woke up with a very sore throat and even sorer body. It seems that the bug which had sort of reared its head last Monday and then disappeared has only been hiding. Since I am not at all bound by any plans, I decided to stay at home and make a half-work, half-relax day out of it, hoping that I could appease the bug by drinking lots of tea and lemon juice. Fingers crossed.
Even the ironing was more a joy and less of a chore, especially since there weren't that many items to iron in the first place (I love crinkly blouses, me). There is something special about ironing linen, even more so when that linen is a tablecloth that belonged to your great-grandmother. They made things to last back then.
It's not as if I've never washed clothes before, or ironed. I've been helping my mum with the laundry since I was little, and we sang children's songs while folding the handkerchiefs (which, by the way, is also a tradition that goes back to the same great-grandmother, if not further). The difference here is that this is my laundry, washed in my washing machine, gleaming white on my washing line, and it's my choice whether to wash at all, which bits to iron and which not. The pleasures of one's own place.
Of course, singing, or croaking, along loudly to up-tempo music helped, too.
It may be that I will be looking back on that sentence in a year's time, or even sooner, and shake my head at my earlier self. But the self that I am now has been washing various items of clothing and other washables since Friday evening, having two loads hanging on the line overnight (I figured if anyone needed a cheap towel, they might as well help themselves, but nothing was gone the next morning; an encouraging non-happening), and two Saturday morning. The weather was absolutely ideal, warm and sunny, yet windy, and my towels smell delightfully of the clean, fresh scent you can only get by letting them dry outside, and that no washing powder or fabric softener can imitate.
I had originally wanted to go out on Saturday, to catch a (free) concert of Shostakovich, but I woke up with a very sore throat and even sorer body. It seems that the bug which had sort of reared its head last Monday and then disappeared has only been hiding. Since I am not at all bound by any plans, I decided to stay at home and make a half-work, half-relax day out of it, hoping that I could appease the bug by drinking lots of tea and lemon juice. Fingers crossed.
Even the ironing was more a joy and less of a chore, especially since there weren't that many items to iron in the first place (I love crinkly blouses, me). There is something special about ironing linen, even more so when that linen is a tablecloth that belonged to your great-grandmother. They made things to last back then.
It's not as if I've never washed clothes before, or ironed. I've been helping my mum with the laundry since I was little, and we sang children's songs while folding the handkerchiefs (which, by the way, is also a tradition that goes back to the same great-grandmother, if not further). The difference here is that this is my laundry, washed in my washing machine, gleaming white on my washing line, and it's my choice whether to wash at all, which bits to iron and which not. The pleasures of one's own place.
Of course, singing, or croaking, along loudly to up-tempo music helped, too.
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