If I didn’t share my apartment with another human being, I would never fold my laundry. This kind of laziness begets marital discord. It also begets 20-Minute Healthy Ricotta Pasta, so I’m not changing my ways any time soon.
The washing the part of laundry doesn’t bother me. I even divide my lights and darks like my mama taught me. (I also wish she would have taught me to use bleach, because despite my load-separation diligence, my white shirts inevitably dwindle to a milky Earl Grey.) Even using a communal, dorm-style laundry room doesn’t perturb me. What does: folding.
I will leave my laundry basket (full of clean clothes mind you) in the middle of our apartment for three days without folding it. This might not sound like a big deal, but that rogue basket occupies 15% of the open floor space in our tiny cozy home. I’m destined trip over it in the middle of the night, break my ankle, and learn my lesson, but until then, I’m going to continue my sock-matching and T-shirt-folding procrastination.