What Does Your Folded Laundry Say About You?

What does your folded laundry say about you? 

Well, if you're anything like me, you obsess over the way every single item of your clothing is folded. Countless loads of my family's clothing washed and folded perfectly by me.  Perfectly. Every single load.  Every single piece.  Every single time. Every single day.

What does that say about me? Well, it says that I'm insane.  That's what I am, I'm insane. There, I said it. Only a crazy person micromanages and controls a laundry room the way that I do. My laundry says that I flew over the cuckoos nest and that I'm never coming back.

Why do I freak out over something so stupid as the way my laundry gets folded is the real, burning question that I need your help with? I have this part of me, this little voice that tells me to let it go, and to stop obsessing.  That it doesn't matter how the laundry gets folded, as long as the laundry gets done, right? WRONG!

I take the time to fold every single article of clothing like my house is the GAP.  The jeans have to have the perfect fold with no showing of denim coming up or out of the side of the fold.  (Come on, you know what I mean by the perfect jean fold?  Don't play coy with me!)  The t-shirts folded like they were done on a folding board.  (I've thought about buying one of those things, but stop myself because I think my hand folding is pretty on par.  Just sayin')  Underwear......folded up like origami.  Wait, maybe I should become an "origami-ist"?  I have some mad folding skills in my humble opinion.

Here's a scenario that might make me a seriously horrible, bad, awful, terrible person: My mother-in-law is sweet enough to do my laundry for me.  She's a great woman, and I'm lucky to have her in my life.  But here's the thing........I want to kill her when I see that she's washed and folded my laundry! When I see it all stacked up on the counter in my kitchen in those uneven, non-color sorted piles, I have to tie my arms down to my sides so that I don't throw it on the floor in front of her, smack her in the head, and then refold it all while cursing up a storm and screaming obscenities in front of her and the kids and yelling, "WHO THE HELL FOLDS CLOTHES LIKE THIS???  YOU SHOULD BE SENT TO JAIL FOR THINKING THAT THIS TYPE OF PITIFUL FOLDING IS ACCEPTABLE!!!  WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU"

(At this point, I remind myself to breathe deeply to avoid passing out, and I thank her profusely for folding my laundry and for her help, which I sincerely mean.)  

Confession: Sorry, Mamma, if you're reading this.  I'm crazy, but you already know that and thanks for loving me anyhow. Once she leaves the room, I secretly throw it all on the floor and refold every piece.  After my mini-meltdown is over and I've refolded the mess,  I stand back to look at all of my perfectly folded laundry piles sorted exactly the way that I like them.   I applaud my good work in my head, and quietly take a bow.  Then I remind myself that I almost just died a thousand deaths and this is why I need a glass of wine even though its only 4:38pm.

I can breathe again.

Anyone else out there suffering from my laundry disease?  The first step its acceptance, my lovelies.

xo,
D