Laundry Night

I sit, listening to the new Michael Buble CD (which is pretty fantabulous), waiting for laundry to get done. I'm not drinking wine. . . yet.

For the second time in my life I'm doing laundry that includes clothes I don't wear. Clothes I could not possibly wear in public and get away with it. Men's white undershirts and socks. Plaid underthings that are charming on the owner, but something I could never get away with.

This act of doing a man's laundry, I once swore I would never do until someone soundly shackled me with a precious-metal-and-stone ring, as well as a license and some sort of tax incentive. Once married, I feared I would get the privilege of doing all sorts of un-fun chores for not just myself but whoever I was licensed to, like laundry and dishes and cooking. I actually like cooking, so scratch that. Technically, laundry isn't that bad of a chore, but folding laundry is heinous.

So what happened? I'm not quite sure. It is nice to have someone to snuggle with at night; humans were never meant to be solitary creatures. Also, if someone snuggles at night they typically need fresh clothes to wear the next day, or else they need to return home to get said fresh clothes. If they return home to fetch fresh clothes that means less time to snuggle, especially if they also have to wash dirty clothes.

The number of clothes in my closet and dresser increased by about a quarter last month. Exactly 95% of these clothes were not made for a 20-something female. Maybe I'm exaggerating how many clothes he's stashed at my place, but at any rate, it's a lot.

I really hesitated to write about this, in fear of seeming improper. Of what? I don't know; the only people whose opinion I care about who would possibly disapprove have already given me free license to "do whatever makes Diane happy". Unless I have a lot of close friends who would frown on Diane's modern living arrangement.

I'm very happy with the arrangement. I don't even mind doing the laundry.

But I do think I'm scared. My darling has been across this bridge once before. And way down the road after the bridge. Got the souvenir t-shirt and paperwork to prove it.

It's not a safe bridge, I think. It requires a lot of trust, faith, and hope to emerge together on the other side. He's leading me across slowly, by the hand. He's smiling.

I'm blind.