Updates

The title’s a lie.

While I adore the feeling of sliding into clean sheets, I pretty much dislike everything about laundry. Our laundry room resides in our basement, which means lots of stairs to climb both ways, especially on those occasions when I remember, last minute, that I put in one final load before bed that needs to get flipped to the dryer. I always hope that one is towels, because leaving them (dry) in the dryer the rest of the night won’t do much wrinkle damage.

The other day, I did bunches of laundry. I believe it was Sunday, but I react to the time change like a cranky infant, so everything about the weekend feels like a million days away. I didn’t feel all that behind when I started, but I did switch out the sheets on two of our three beds and washed the bathroom throw rugs, so the volume was more than I usually end up doing on the weekend.

As I folded and piled and matched socks and walked back and forth to closets to hang things, I tried to take a breath and remember even doing laundry can be looked at as a kind of meditative practice.

But, no thanks.

It’s not. Not for me, at least. And I’m not sure why my brain felt the need to take a stand on this particular thought, but I really turned it over and over in my head. It’s ok not to “appreciate” the task of laundry, as long as I’m getting it done and not letting it pile into a crusty mountain in the corner. It’s ok to say, the next fifteen minutes are going to be a pain, and I wish I could outsource it all like Warner in Legally Blonde.

It’s ok to love the feeling of clean sheets and not particularly care for the steps it takes to get there, as long as I do get there in the end.

During Covid, like many people, I made bread and did puzzles. Those activities were supposed to be togetherness moments with my kids, but Ab and I only made focaccia together once and even Dylan got sick of doing puzzles with me after a while. They may not have created bonding moments, but they did help me stay off my phone and gave me something to do that wasn’t reading.

I’ve been scrolling on my phone (and my computer) too much lately. However, the book I’m currently reading is a heavy one, and I’m reading it in sips instead of gulps. (Killers of the Flower Moon: The Osage Murder and the Birth of the FBI by David Grann) I probably should work out a little more, but even that only takes up so much time in the day. I organized the linen closet but couldn’t bring myself to start sifting through the totes in the basement that are filled with things that should be saved and things that should be tossed, which requires a discerning mood.

I’m also scrolling in my brain too much, returning over and over to a decision that’s mostly made but not all the way, and the steps we will need to take to put the decision into play. Basically, I needed something to quiet my thoughts but I didn’t want to keep numbing them with endless online stimulation.

So this weekend, I broke out one of my favorite puzzles. I dusted the dining room table and pulled open the curtains to let in the light. It turns out I’ve forgotten parts of puzzling, like that I dislike having to flip over pieces while separating them or that Max likes to sit on the pieces, bat them off the table, and chew on them every once in a while.

I didn’t forget how soothing it feels to focus without focusing too much.

Abbey told me it makes her frustrated to do them, the lack of control you have over the speed with which you can finish. I forgot that, too, how they take longer than expected. Even the ones you’ve done before. Even when things seem like they’re coming together, there are whole sections that still need to be started and incorporated.

Ryan laughed when I told him I wanted to finish by the end of the day. I reconsidered as the light shifted. I thought about bringing over a lamp so I could keep working. Instead, I neatened the area and stepped away. My mind felt quieter, and I thought I will probably appreciate the opportunity to quiet it again tomorrow.

Detroit set a record for warm temperatures on today’s date (73 degrees), and I’m not sure how I feel about it.

I pulled out a favorite pair of shoes, wedge espadrilles that left my ankles bare. I miss being able to slip into easy shoes without worrying about which socks to wear with which boots or sitting down on the floor to pull on my chunkiest ones with all my might. I like how they look but probably should have considered real leather or a pair with a zipper instead of relying on bodily contortion to pull them on each morning (and afternoon. and evening. depending on what I’m doing for the day.

I drove with the windows down, listening to Usher, like it was twenty years ago and I wasn’t worried about money and kids’ schedules and my cortisol levels. My sunglasses were finally being used for sun and not just the cool glare of thin air bouncing off blinding snow.

I loved walking outside, sweating the slightest amount in just short sleeves and black leggings. More than the heat, I enjoyed walking with my girl on the serendipitous day that aligned a day off school and work with gorgeous warmth and sunshine.

But tomorrow will be thirty degrees, at least that’s what is predicted, after a night of thunderstorms and possible hail, all of those weather phenomena that occur when temperature extremes crash into each other. (Of course that leads to worry about why we’re getting these weather swings to begin with, overall warmer winters with cold stretches that make me cry due to wind and maybe a little worry.

It hasn’t cooled down yet, at 8:00 p.m., though I expect it will soon. I should close the sliding door currently allowing some breeze to stir the curtains into movement. I should do a lot of things, but I’ll try to appreciate this respite from winter, a day of lunch with a friend, a walk with my daughter, a movie on the couch with my son, talking to Ryan about voting and who will pick up whom, the juxtaposition of unseasonable weather and lovely normalcy making everything feel almost like a promise of the spring to come.