I did the washing. The four words you don’t want to hear from your husband. I was only
gone one day. Why would he do that? After 8 years of zero masculine activity in the
laundry, why would my husband suddenly get an urge go pop on a few loads? What
happened? Did his football team lose? Was he curious to see if he really could live
without me? Did the constant rain force him to our washing basket? Was he trying to
impress a visitor? I thought that was an understanding we have. He mows. I wash. Sure
its old fashioned. But it works for us. I know I complain about how much more housework
I do, but I certainly wasn’t expecting him to do the washing. Thats’ off limits. The washing
is my territory. I’m not being sexist. I’m being jobbist. I do it better. I like to wash the
clothes, not actually ruin them. I separate colours. I hand wash. I know what can go in
the dryer. I put underwear in a bag. I check pockets. Here’s something radical….I read
the washing instructions! I know, imagine taking advice and actually implementing it! I
know he’s done the washing because the basket is empty. And I wasn’t the one who
emptied it. My heart starts racing. I’m feeling a little nauseous. I’m hoping my mother
came for a surprise visit. Perhaps Aliens abducted my laundry? But I know thats not the
case. I’m filled with terror. You know that moment when you know all is lost? Shit! My
favourite dresses are in there. I run from my bedroom to the laundry. It’s then when I see
the tell tale signs of an aborted attempt at washing. The lid is up. Some stuff is in. Some
stuff is out. Perhaps he never proceeded? I move in for a closer inspection. Too late. He’s
done a long cycle on cold. It looks like everything I’ve ever worn made it in there. There is
a wet and mangled mess hiding at the bottom of the tub. Black jeans encircle white lace
knickers, now that creepy grey colour you never see in the ads. The hooks on my bras
have found the perfect grooves to tear at my delicates. My summer dress, once falling
loose and sensual, able to lift in a sudden breeze is now a top. Perhaps i can give it to my
8 year old to use on one of her barbies. It’s when I open the dryer that I flip. My favourite
red dress. In the dryer. Who would do that? What kind of animal puts crepe in a dryer? I
tell myself to breathe. Remind myself that I love him. That he’s trying to help. Nothing is
more poorly received than help that was never wanted in the first place. I realise I have to
confront him. It’s going to be one of those moments that challenge a marriage. He thinks
he’s done something good. For a moment I think. Should have got a labrador. At least
they can’t operate a washing machine. So I say…’did you do the washing?’ It’s
accusatory. It’s an unusual tone to ask a question of a man who’s had a crack at the
housework. He says ‘yes…’ and then kind of like he knows what went wrong he says ‘I
tried to separate the colours and stuff’. Clearly the man is colour blind. If what I saw in the
washing machine was an IQ test he wouldn’t have his doctorate. At least not in washing.
I’m a bitch. I’m angry. So I say ‘well you didn’t do very well’. This is the point when I think
maybe our marriage is over. Maybe this is it. Perhaps I’m over reacting. But I’ve lost half
my wardrobe in a man-tastrophe. Maybe this is grounds for a no fault divorce. ‘Your
honour he didn’t separate the colours, put hand washing in the machine and he put my
dress in the dryer.’ I can see the gavel come down hard ‘unreconcilable’. I want to go on
about it. And on and on and on. You know when you can’t let go. When something that
should be small becomes big and it makes you so angry you become unreasonable and
boorish in your need to tell everyone over and over. Well thats why I am writing this. I’m
still not over it. I know its not mature. It’s not meant to be. Its a tantrum. Poor John. Then I
realise. Perhaps he is a bit like a labrador after all. You know how they chew your shoe
when you go to work. I’ve been travelling a lot lately. Maybe doing my washing was his
way of saying he misses me. This machine is fully loaded. If I was you, I wouldn’t leave.’