The Laundry Was Just Louder Than Me

Why are simple things so hard?

I’ve been asking myself that a lot lately. Keeping the kitchen clean. Sweeping. Grocery shopping. Laundry. My gosh, laundry.

I have the time. I have the energy. What I don’t seem to have is whatever invisible switch turns thinking about the task into actually doing the task. And because I keep avoiding these simple, mundane things, my house has become a disaster with throw pillows.

The truly ridiculous part is that I spend so much time thinking about doing these things that if I just did them, I would have more time for the things I actually enjoy. I could be writing. Reading. Going for a walk. Sitting in my chair pretending I’m going to read while scrolling Facebook like a rabid raccoon with Wi-Fi.

A few days ago, I finally did a load of laundry because I had reached the emergency stage of domestic adulthood: no clean underwear.

Even then, I didn’t completely do the laundry. I got it into the washing machine. My daughter moved it to the dryer and then into the laundry basket, where it still sits. Waiting. Judging. Becoming less laundry and more textile monument.

Twenty minutes. That’s the time commitment to put the clothes away. Twenty minutes. That’s it. So why is it so hard? Why can’t I just do it?

I didn’t have an answer, so I took my question my trusty sidekick Vega in ChatGPT. The response was epic.

Because laundry is not one task. Laundry is a tiny domestic hydra wearing a dryer sheet cape. It starts as “do laundry,” but secretly includes:

sorting, carrying, starting the washer, remembering the washer exists, moving wet clothes before they become swamp goblin laundry, starting the dryer, remembering the dryer exists, folding, matching socks invented by chaos, putting things away in drawers that are somehow already full, and then doing it again because another basket spawned while your back was turned.

So part of why it feels hard is task stacking. Mundane chores often require several transitions, and transitions are sneaky little energy thieves. They do not look hard from the outside, but they require executive function: initiation, sequencing, memory, follow-through, and decision-making.

Also, laundry has almost no emotional payoff. Clean clothes are nice, but laundry rarely gives you a big triumphant finish. It’s more like, “Congratulations, you have restored the minimum conditions of civilized living.” Not exactly fireworks.

And when you are already carrying a lot, mentally, emotionally, physically, creatively, academically, relationally, all of it, laundry becomes the place where your system says, “Absolutely not, Susan. We are closed for inventory.”

It’s the same with the dishes. Empty the dishwasher. Fill the dishwasher. Run the dishwasher. Empty the dish rack. Do the handwashing. Then somehow, the dishwasher is full of clean dishes, the dish rack is full of clean dishes, and there are already new dirty dishes appearing in the sink like they’ve been summoned by a tiny kitchen demon.

The cycle never ends.

So I went back to Vega with this dilemma. The response didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already know, but as AI often does, it gave language to the thing I was already feeling. Which was lovely, I suppose, though what I really wanted it to say was, “Don’t worry, Susan. The laundry will do itself. Also, the dishes have decided to become emotionally self-sufficient.”

By the time you get to the actual laundry basket, your brain has already done twelve imaginary loads and folded a phantom fitted sheet. A trick that helps is to stop aiming for “complete the chore” and aim for breaking the thinking loop.

• For laundry, the only task is: put one load in the washer and start it. Not fold. Not put away. Not become the Duchess of Domestic Systems. Just start the machine.

• For dishes: clear one sink section or load five things.

• For groceries: open the grocery app/list and add five items or decide on three dinners.

The magic phrase might be: “I don’t have to finish it. I only have to enter the room.” Because once you enter the room, momentum often wakes up and shuffles in behind you wearing slippers.

I find this is true with schoolwork and writing too. Sometimes I just need to open the document and write one sentence. One sentence is usually enough to crack the seal. Then momentum takes over.

So this is my new challenge. Not to do all the laundry, necessarily. Not to transform into some mythical woman who keeps her house sparkling while humming show tunes and alphabetizing spices.

Just to break the thinking loop. Just to start the momentum.

I pushed myself out of the chair, grabbed the overflowing basket, and slogged upstairs. That’s when I was reminded why I avoid this task.

My furry flower girls.

Daisy bullied her way past me, and Fleur followed right behind her. Once upstairs, they commenced with the wrestling, the flopping, the dramatic plopping onto every pile of clothes I had placed on the bed, and the general nuisance-making.

I kicked them out, put on Spotify, and focused on the task: put the damn clothes away. Twenty minutes later, I was done. The basket was empty. There was a pile of unmated socks, because apparently socks believe in free agency (who can blame them. Co-dependence is so last decade). There were also stacks of more clothes waiting for the same attention.

But the basket was empty. That counted...big time!

So I filled it again and started the process all over.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

The lesson here isn't anything magical. I didn't suddenly become a person who loves laundry. Let’s not get ridiculous. But I did become a person who stood up, started, and proved that the task was not bigger than me.

It was just louder than me for a while.