One of the downsides of adulthood that I’ve contemplated recently is the endless stream of responsibilities that repeat themselves, on an unending and utterly mundane loop, much like right wing talk radio, but with less shouting and racism. There’s doing laundry, grocery shopping, emptying the dishwasher, cleaning my room, brushing my teeth, flossing. They’re all terrible chores, devoid of any joy or stimulation. Sometimes I just want to give up and completely let myself go. I skipped flossing the other day, and for a moment I thought, “having teeth is overrated anyway. So is having good breath. Fair weather friends will run away at the first whiff of advanced periodontal disease, but the true friends will stand by me, even if they have to hold themselves back from gagging when I speak.”
What bothers me most about these responsibilities is that I will have them until the day I die, unless I end up an invalid in a nursing home, drooling all over myself while an abusive orderly wipes my ass with single ply toilet paper. But barring that depressing outcome, I will never stop doing laundry until the very end. I write this as I stare at an enormous pile of dirty clothes that have completely overwhelmed my flimsy laundry basket and spilled out onto the floor surrounding it. The pile grows each day, slowly spreading like the fungus that is probably spreading through my unwashed running shorts. It’s a source of great anxiety. I know I desperately need to do laundry, but I desperately want to do anything else, like reading the latest weirdness about the Duggar family on Gawker’s Defamer website, or lying on my bed staring at the ceiling.
Finally, when I’m down to my last pair of underwear, I will stuff the washing machine so full of clothes that I sense its about to speak out in protest, as if to say, “Hey man, this ain’t right. You’re asking too much.” Two weeks later, there I’ll be again, down to my last pair of underwear and preparing to once again make that washing machine my bitch. The circle of life continues.