So I’m packing up for my trip to Boston and there’s a basket of freshly dried white clothes on the bed. It has stuff I’m going to need so I start folding. My wife walks by and thanks me for helping out. I pick a pair of panties out of the basket, display them suggestively and leer at her.
“If you reeeeeally want to thank me…” I grinned, still waving the panties.
“Those are Megan’s” she replied without missing a beat.
I yelled and tossed the panties back in the basket like they were radioactive. I felt like I needed to shower all of a sudden.
We have chlorine bleach, oxygen bleach, and liquid stain remover in the laundry room. We have all kinds of soaps, shampoos, and skin lotions in the bathroom closet. The hall closet is filled with things for cleaning around the house. Despite all this inventory, the one thing we do not have in supply is the one thing I need most at this moment: some industrial-strength shame remover. This is the laundry-marker of emotions. It can’t be washed or scrubbed, you have to wear it until it fades away of its own accord.
Now it was her turn to grin. “Still want me to thank you?”
“Ummm, no. Maybe after a year. Or two. Of intense therapy.”
Good thing I’m working out of town this week because it’ll be a while before I can look my daughter in the eye again. I hope my wife understands if I never help with the laundry ever again, so long as we both shall live. If we ever renew our vows, this one is top of the list.