This is the time of year when I dry our laundry outdoors, on one of those umbrella thingies that we put up and take down each laundry day. (Laundry day chez moi happens every two weeks.)
I like hanging out laundry. I\’ve written about its peculiar pleasures before, but boy, is it a lot of work–not, perhaps, in comparison with scrubbing floors on one\’s knees, but much harder than throwing clothes in the dryer and pushing a button.
Our laundry room is on the second floor, which means making five or six trips down the stairs carrying baskets full of wet clothes, and as many back upstairs carrying the (thankfully, lighter) dry clothes. Hanging out laundry means spending many minutes on tiptoes, with my arms stretched to the sky, pinning clothes to the line, and doing many forward bends to pick up clothes pins and clothes, and then again to take them down. It means making supplementary trips to the back yard every couple of hours to check which clothes are dry. And on days when it suddenly starts to rain it means rushing out to rescue the clothes before they get completely drenched.
I\’m sure this is good for me–all that stretching and bending and carrying–and it\’s good for the clothes, which smell lovely, and it\’s kind to our poor bedeviled earth. Plus, it gives me a pure feeling that I enjoy. I\’m just saying, it\’s a lot of work.