Why Doing Laundry Feels Like A Personal Betrayal

The Romance of Laundry Day

One of my all-time favourite feelings in the entire world is slipping into bed on laundry day. Especially after an everything shower. You know the ones. The kind where you shave every corner of your body, exfoliate like you’re sanding a coffee table, and slather yourself in lotion until you resemble a glazed donut. Then you tuck yourself into fresh, clean sheets and it’s like being hugged by a meadow of eucalyptus-scented clouds. Bliss.

It’s the simple things. The quiet ritual of folding warm towels. The soft scent of lavender or linen or whatever fancy eco detergent I’ve convinced myself is worth the price tag this week*. Freshly laundered pyjamas. Cotton-soft pillowcases. It all just feels like self-love in fabric form. Like the universe whispering, “You are cared for.”

But here’s the kicker. I absolutely, utterly, with every fibre of my being… hate doing laundry. Loathe it. Avoid it like it’s a cursed scroll. And honestly? I think it’s a betrayal. Not just of my time, but of the sacred agreement I thought we had with adulthood. Why does something so comforting have to come wrapped in so much chaos?

*Let’s be real, it’s whatever is cheapest.

Too Many Steps, Not Enough Satisfaction

Laundry isn’t just a chore. It’s a full-scale mission. First, you have to collect all the rogue socks, crumpled tees, and mysterious damp items that have somehow migrated to every corner of the house. Then comes the separating of lights and darks, the colour catchers, the guessing game of what can go in hot water without turning into doll clothes. It’s a puzzle, but the pieces are never clean.

And then the machine. Oh, the machine. Lying to my face with that “1 minute remaining” flashing sign. Lies. That thing will spin, pause, splutter and beep for what feels like three lifetimes. By the time it finishes, I’ve forgotten I even own a washing machine. It’s the worst case of object permanence. If I can’t hear it or smell fabric softener in the air, laundry does not exist.

Don’t even get me started on the next bit. Pulling out wet clothes, praying nothing smells funky, and hanging them up like I’m an 18th-century laundress. Or worse, chucking them in the dryer and playing tumble-dry roulette with your favourite jumper. And even once it’s dry, there’s still folding. Still steaming. Still hanging. Still suffering.

The Emotional Rollercoaster of Forgotten Undies

There’s nothing quite like the slow descent into panic when you open the drawer and realise you’re out of clean undies. You stare into the abyss, betrayed by your own laziness. You knew this day would come. You ignored the warning signs. You walked past the overflowing basket. You thought, “I’ll do it tomorrow.” And now? Now you’re wearing the undies with the weird hole in that one place, and stretched out elastic.

It’s the silent shame of pulling yesterday’s leggings off the floor and giving it a hopeful sniff. The internal monologue of “how bad is it really?” The crisis of priorities when you realise you could either put a load on now or sit down and eat cheese in your dressing gown for another hour. Guess who wins*.

And laundry guilt is real. Every time I do it late, or forget, or leave it in the washer too long and have to rewash because now it smells like wet cardboard… I feel like I’ve failed some basic test of adulthood. Like I should be sent back to Tutorial Mode to try again.

*The cheese, obviously.

The False Promise of Completion

Laundry is never done. It gives the illusion of being a task you can complete, but it’s lying. Even as you celebrate that last pair of socks being folded, you’re wearing clothes. Which means the betrayal has already begun again. You are the enemy. You are the laundry generator.

And don’t get me started on when you do the laundry and forget to actually put it away. Now your clean clothes are decorating every surface of your home like you’ve just been evicted. You think, “It’s fine, I’ll put them away later.” You won’t. They’ll be there until you’re pulling shirts from the clean pile on the chair like some sort of chaos goblin. And, of course, that’s exactly when your black cat will decide your freshly laundered white jumper is the perfect nest for a luxurious three-hour nap, leaving behind a constellation of fur and the faint scent of betrayal.

Sure, there might be a brief moment of calm in that brief window after everything’s clean and folded, when the air smells like eucalyptus, and you think, “This. This is how I want to live.” But then life continues. You wear socks. You spill tea. You sweat. And the dream dies all over again.

Doing laundry is like summoning a demon. There are too many steps, it never ends well, and something always ends up cursed.

Why We’re All In This Together

Here’s the thing. You’re not lazy. You’re not a failure. Laundry is just fundamentally rude. It interrupts your day. It requires a nine-step process that should honestly qualify for course credits. And for what? So you don’t stink? That’s not a reward, that’s a baseline standard.

We’ve all been there. We’ve all rewashed the same load three times because we forgot it. We’ve all ironed one shirt and decided the rest can live in wrinkle purgatory. We’ve all gone out in gym tights because we couldn’t face steaming a pair of trousers. Laundry is a shared trauma, and I refuse to be shamed for it.

If you’re someone who loves laundry and finds it meditative… I’m both impressed and confused. What spell are you under? Did your ancestors own a laundromat? Were you a Victorian maid in a past life? Teach me your ways. But for the rest of us, just know this: you’re not alone. And you’re doing great.

And finally, if laundry is a test of character, I’m proud to say I have failed gloriously – in yesterdays leggings, with grace.

We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity

In today's episode of Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity, we're unpacking why we need to stop clapping for basic decency. You know the script. A man texts back within twenty-four hours and we're screenshotting it to the group chat. A man plans a date more than three hours in advance and we call him a unicorn. A man manages to listen, pay attention, and behave like a fully formed adult, and our nervous systems short-circuit because we genuinely don't know how to receive it.Here's the truth nobody is saying out loud. The bar has been dragged so low that Satan himself needs a chiropractor after a competitive round of limbo. We've been culturally trained to be grateful for behaviour that should not require gratitude. We've been told these things are bonuses when they're actually the entry requirement. And in the meantime, women have been quietly doing the basic decency thing forever, without applause, while men get standing ovations for outputs we generated for them.Today we're talking about why a great man is genuinely just an average woman, who benefits when the bar stays low, the invisible labour women have been performing for free for centuries, and the friend-test that cuts straight through every excuse we've ever made for mediocre men. Let's get into it.For more visit BryJaimea.com or follow over on IG @BryJaimea

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