Laundry goes on, so does life

One of the daunting challenges of adult existence is laundry (oh, the tension of champagne problems).

There, I said it. Before you come at me, I have proof. When I speak to friends in charge of their spaces, conversations often begin with a sigh and a declaration. “There is just so much to do.” Within the first few sentences, we address the real issue. “You know what, it’s the laundry. It’s never-ending.”

There is immediate agreement. A shared understanding. A silent solidarity. If children are involved, the tone shifts ever so slightly: from complaint to competition. “It’s just the two of you; with kids, it’s a whole other level.” Because nothing says escalation quite like clothes that are smaller, more frequent, and mysteriously dirtier.

Humour me, and imagine the usual modern-day young working couple (the disclaimer of them being married is essential). They wake up, put on an appropriate shirt to match their trousers, maybe add some personality in the form of socks, and make their way to work. They return, shed the day along with more than six articles of clothing, toss them into the washing machine, slip into comfortable pyjamas, and binge-watch their mutually agreed-upon series.

And if one—or both—work out, then of course, there is the addition of gym clothes to the mix. Don’t be fooled by the shrunk-by-spandex size; they can tip the weight of the laundry workload.

I dare not forget that we are social beings. Donning clothes to match out-of-home activities, or our Instagram feed, on days we spend bearing the fruits of our digitally induced labour. (On a side note, I am deeply aware of the generalisation. That’s all I wanted to say—that I’m aware.)

Seven days at a stretch, on repeat.

Amidst all this, a routine emerges. An analysis to conquer laundry is conducted. You run a load every other day. You begin to treat the machine’s timer as a productivity window—forty-five minutes to feel like you have your life together. It washes; you put it out to dry. The sun works its magic, as if participating in your domestic ambition. You remove it, fold it, and put it away (with some detours along the way).

There is a silent competition with the laundry basket, measuring your success by its emptiness. Just when you think you are done, one sneaky sock, or an entire T-shirt you somehow ignored, presents itself.

The laundry basket wins again.

You can create schedules, assign days, even turn it into a game if you are feeling particularly optimistic. But there will always be more laundry. A quiet, consistent reminder that life, in its most practical form, is repetitive.

During my quieter moments (in due time, one notices I have many), with a cup of tea in hand, I find myself thinking about life (while taking a break from laundry). Living an independent life comes with its freedoms—choice, space, autonomy. It also comes with its cycles. The things we must do, whether we feel like it or not. The responsibilities that don’t announce themselves dramatically, but show up anyway, day after day.

Laundry, in all its mundane persistence, is simply proof of living. Of showing up. Of going out into the world, returning, and beginning again.

To put it like a philosophical mantra, there will always be another mountain to climb after ascending the predecessor. But don’t forget to enjoy a picnic in the valley. To put it like an Instagram caption, you are in the midst of the life you once dreamed of. My inner child is shocked at the consumption of pizza on the bed while watching TV for two whole hours.

Acquiring that one wish, pushing its boundaries, the weight of carrying through—we oscillate between satisfaction and exhaustion.

Perhaps the point is not to begrudge it. Perhaps it is to be grateful—for the clothes we buy without a second thought, for the lives that require them, and for the quiet normalcy they represent.

Because if there is laundry to be done, there is life being lived.

And that, on most days, is enough.