The Vicious Cycle

I must confess. I hate clothes.

Now, before you hyperventilate out of sheer stereotypical girl blasphemy let me explain.

I have a tendency of buying a piece or two of clothing every couple weeks. It’s my little way of shopping without all the guilt of a full blown shopping spree. I think it helps on my wallet, too. Plus, I’m a bad A in sale and clearance shopping.

As much as I love finding great deals and new pieces to style, I hate the other part of clothing. No, not the wearing part. That’s the best.

I HATE hanging clothes up in the closet. Hate!

Every Sunday is laundry day. I shuffle through my pile of clothes that have miraculously landed on the floor of the bedroom over the week and decide if it should be washed or not. My technique? Smell. Yes, I sit on my bed with my pile of clothes and sniff away. If it doesn’t stink or my jeans haven’t lost their umpf, then they are laid neatly on the bed to wait for the trip to the closet. Some things are folded and put in the dresser. This is less painful.

The dirty clothes are separated into colors and whites. The laundry loads begin and I get a couple more hours to ponder other ways to organize my clothes without hanging them up. I’m usually unsuccessful.

*Side Note: We never separated the whites from the colors until we finally paid the price. I bought Joe a maroon shirt over in Amsterdam and the first time I washed it our whites came out with a beautiful pink hue. Fantastic!

By Sunday evening, Joe walks around the kitchen corner with a basket full of clean, warm clothes. At this point I usually groan with appropriate, “I don’t wanna!” whines. The whining is also unsuccessful.

I meander my way into the bedroom for the weekly hang fest and begin sorting. Everything gets laid out on the bed and then I head to the closet to hunt for hangers. I may or may not steal a few of Joe’s hangers because I recently bought a new top and skirt.

Joe whips through his clothes like a tornado and finishes within 5-10 minutes.  I sit there hoping the clothes will hang themselves. This is unsuccessful…again.

The clothes eventually get hung up and a sense of pride comes over me for the rest of the night.

Monday after work, I throw my clothes on the floor and jump into a comfortable shirt and shorts as fast as possible. Or in most cases, gym clothes. Tuesday is the same thing.

Wednesday happens and it’s laundry day again. Yes, we need to do laundry twice a week. This is where the real problem occurs. I refuse to hang up my clothes on a week night. There, I said it. Whew! Glad to get that off my chest; hence, why my Sunday laundry day becomes such an ordeal. I have a week’s worth of clothes to go through, not just a few days like Joe.

I begin to look at my clothes very loathingly and wonder why I bought that cute maxi or that fun, neon tank. I remember the good times. The good times where I felt confident at work or felt pretty at dinner with Joe. I remember the times when that tank top kept me cool in the summer heat and that maxi dress kept me comfortable at the lake. Good times.

I don’t have a solution except to actually hang my clothes. I’m not willing to surrender.

So the vicious cycle continues…


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