The Folding

I know that not everyone will agree with this. However, I must state my feelings on the subject.

I dislike folding clothes.

I know, I know. Most everyone in the world loves and enjoys the task, but I haven’t ever gotten into it. At the very least, I’ve found it difficult to find contentment while reducing the size of a square dish rag into a smaller square.

One of my disadvantages in life — besides the fact that I can ram into ceiling fans with my head — is that I remember the past very well.

Not every second of every minute, but close.

I was about two or three years old when I started folding laundry. My parents had a single-wide trailer for the first three years of my life. Through the front door and directly to the right was my room. I remember sitting in front of the front door and the bedroom door, folding clothes. This was before my brother was born.

I know that I was three or under because my parents bought their current place in the early Spring of 1994. I know this because I had my fourth birthday party in it. I received a black catcher’s mitt that year.

I remember that as a two to three-year-old child, I was not interested in folding clothes, nor was I good at it. But that did not deter my dad from allowing me the opportunity to finish the task. Namely, I couldn’t play until I finished folding my undergarments.

And he always wanted me to hang up my shirts. The button-up shirts, the t-shirts, and the undergarment tank tops. Why? Because he was in the Army.

So this was always how the discussion went:

“Son, hang those t-shirts up.”

“Dad, I have a chest of drawers,” I pronounced them chester-droors.

“Son, you can’t put shirts in a drawer.”

“Oh, Dad, let me show you how easy and simple it is. It truly is possible.”

Then he brought up the Army.

“You know, if you ever go in the Army, you‘ll have to hang them up. You might as well start doing it now.”

Now that I think about it, my Dad must’ve thought I would enlist in the military or hoped I would. He brought it up frequently.

(Side note: One day, I was mowing a deep ditch with a pushmower alongside a busy highway. A brand new white Chevy Malibu pulled into the driveway. A military recruiter in his fancy uniform stepped out of the car and approached the 90-degree embankment where I mowed. He had an ice-cold bottle of water in hand for me. He must’ve not known about my preference for room-temperature water.

He tried to enlist me in the military. I told him I was not interested in helping him fill his quota, but if they started drafting people, I wouldn’t escape to Canada. I’m still not convinced that he just happened to pass by. I think my dad set that up. End of the side note.)

Anyways, I learned my dad’s way of folding clothes rather quickly, and until I got married, I folded clothes his way.

Then my wife informed me that I folded them incorrectly. And she wanted me to hang up the shirts, too.

Sigh.

Hopefully, she doesn’t set up a meeting with a recruiter. And if she ever asks me to mow a ditch with a pushmower, I guess I’ll just start hanging up the t-shirts.

to the slow learners,
– Caleb