As anyone who knows my routine is aware, Sunday is laundry day.
I kind of hate doing the laundry. It's not a lot of work - despite the fact that I have to shuffle things up and down the stairs, and in and out of the house thanks to my sub-optimal laundry arrangement - but it's just a hassle, and it serves as a reminder of the fact that my hands just don't work.
And, really, I don't need to be reminded of that.
But the reminder comes in the form of dropped clothes - especially irritatting when it happens when I'm transferring wet clothes to the dryer and the filth that accumulates on the cement floor of the outdoor shed where my dryer is located (see the bit about "sub-optimal laundry arrangement") regardless of how often I sweep it, gets all over the freshly-cleaned piece of clothing and seems to fuse into the actual fibers.
And, of course, there is the obligatory banging into things, whether it's stubbing my fingers against the lid of the washing machine, or just generally stumbling around like a drunken Spider Monkey while trying to carry the load of wet clothes outside.
Further reminders of the fact that my hands don't work come into play once it's time to actually fold the clothes and put them away...
And to top it all off, I kind of hate clothes in the first place.
You and me both, sister.
Which isn't to say that I'm inclined towards nudism because, seriously, even with my newly-developed post-weight loss vanity, there are two words that come to mind when I think about myself casually wandering around without a stitch on: God forbid.
I suppose the fact that I need clothes adds to my hatred of them.
Really, my hatred of clothing is the result of these factors:
You have to spend money to buy clothes, money that could be used to buy comic books or electronics.
You have to maintain them ("do the laundry"), and it's not really acceptable to just wear the same things day after day. You can't just dispose of them and get new ones, either, since that would take even more money away from comic books and electronics.
Other people seem to actually care about your clothes and make judgments about you based on them, which, in part, leads back to the whole "maintenance" thing. "Look at how wrinkled his shirt is! He must be a bad person!" But beyond that, you end up having to give at least some amount of thought to ephemeral nonsense like "style" and "fashion."
And finally, and more personally, the whole buying clothes thing - beyond wishing that I could use that money for comic books and electronics - is just a hassle.
Beyond the fact that it entails going out into the world and venturing into places where people congregate - which goes against every natural instinct I have - my...unique body type makes finding clothes that fit reasonably well a challenge.
I'm short, but my shoulders are broad and, even after the weight loss, my neck is kind of thick, which makes buying shirts - especially dress shirts - problematic.
And even though I'm short, I'm not terribly fat, and the people who make pants seem to think that fat and short go together like peanut butter and chocolate...which they assume that short people are stuffing their faces with.
Even before I lost more than 40 pounds I wasn't quite fat enough as far as pants manufacturers were concerned. "Sure, you can buy these pants that will fit your waist...but they're going to be far too long for you. If you have legs that short, why not pack on some more weight? Add four inches to your waist, and then we'll talk."
It's as if they think that because you're already short you might as well just give up and let yourself go completely. You're not that tall; might as well be just as wide.
Losing weight has, of course, only served to exacerbate the problem.
Laundry day. Pisses me off every time.