Surprise in the Dryer

I am married to a man who does laundry, cleans the kitchen counters, and vacuums. He also keeps the lawn mowed and edged, which is great. As is true for many men, he enjoys doing chores and using implements that entail an element of risk or requires complex steps of action.

Take our Dyson, for example. It has all kinds of bells and whistles. The evening we bought it, Sam vacuumed our bedroom and then the entire upstairs of the house. What sold him on this product is that it has lots of knobs, a long extendible wand to clean the ceiling, and attachments galore. And not only that, but you can watch the dust and dirt whirl around in the canister. It has different kinds of filters and levers on it. Needless to say, our house has been very clean since we got this vacuum cleaner. And I mean, the sofas, chairs, lamps, baseboards, and the carpets.

I am really grateful that my husband takes his household chores seriously. He often comes down the stairs on a Saturday night, lugging the clothes hamper. “I have to get this started before it gets too late” he says, with furrowed brow. He starts the laborious process of sorting the clothes. There’s a pile of towels, a pile of sheets, a heap of Sam’s shirts, and a pile of jeans and dark clothes. He is adding detergent to the running water in the washing machine and adding clothes with great panache.

I adore Sam. He is handsome, dresses smartly and carries himself very well. I am so glad, because not only is he good looking, but handy. His impressive domestic skills allow me to wear clothes of unusual hues several times each week. "Sky-blue-pink" is more than a comment made in levity. Our beige bath towels look cyanotic. I think Sam puts things into the washer together based on their texture, not necessarily their colors. But I don’t have to worry about the wash because it is taken care of every week. I do the cooking, shopping, gardening, and pick up stuff. But I needn’t worry about a huge chunk of the work because my strapping husband is toting the clothes up and down the stairs to the laundry room every week.

Today I wore coral-magenta underpants with a pale blue elastic at the waist. I hope I'm not in a car wreck or something that would require a trip to the Emergency Room. Can you imagine the nurses cutting off my clothes and getting down to my panties. "Whoa! Where'd she get these?" "Is tie-dye back in?" But some nurses would look enviously at these three-tone wonders. They would know that I have a husband who carries his weight around the house. How lucky can a woman be?