When it comes to laundry, and when to "do laundry," my underwear supply is my limiting factor.
You would think, since underwear is so important to me (there, I admitted it), that I would own underwear in abundance... that I would have enough underwear to last through a nuclear winter, or a few back-and-forth trips to Proxima Centauri. But, instead, underwear is the limiting factor. Once a week, I make a concerted effort to look in my underwear drawer, and note whether or not I can see the drawer's bottom. If not, I'm fine. If so, it's time to do laundry.
So, Saturday, I did three loads of laundry. Now I have underwear a-plenty. And other garments as well. This morning, after my shower, I put on a recently-washed t-shirt, underwear, and jeans that had already been cleaned. I pulled a sweater on over the t-shirt and merrily skipped to the bus stop.
About halfway to the bus, I realized that I smell. Did I put on deodorant? Yes. Cologne? Most definitely.
What the hell was going on, then?
I stopped in my tracks, and took of my sweater. Upon careful scans with my nose, I determined that the sweater smelled great. So did my skin. An awkward lifing of my leg with simultaneous lowering of my nose allowed me to determine that my jeans smelled fine. So, carefully, after making sure no one was peeking, I slowly lifted my shirt, to gater enough of the garment under my nose.
Ah-ha! My shirt stinks to high heaven!
Wait... didn't I just wash it?
I'm 1,000% sure that I actually indeed washed it, and even put a generous amount of laundry detergent in the machine. That shirt should smell like a freaking bed of roses. Why the hell did it stink?
Realizing how much time I'd spent on the sidewalk smelling my clothes, I sprinted to the bus stop, and barely made it in time. I resolved to keep the sweater on for the rest of the day, no matter how hot it go, in the hopes that it would mask the shirt stink. But, of course, I also spent the entire day wrapped in paranoia, thinking every second that my co-workers, or even folks I casually pass in the hallway, are brought to near nausea due to the overwhelming stench of my shirt. To make matters worse, Zach and I dined with a friend tonight, and I could just imagine the friend (and Zach) walking away full of pity for James, how apparently thinks "washing shirts" means "rubbing shirts with warm, fresh buffalo patties."
So, what the hell happened to this shirt? Why did the gods/goddesses up there decide to make this single garment (a valuable t-shirt, no less, as it advertises paleontology) stink to high heaven? I haven't had the courage to check my other clothes from this weekend's laundry yet. I figured, at this point, it's easier to spend the rest of my life in bed, shirtless, with the covers clutched around me.
Posted by James at May 23, 2005 09:58 PM