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Still no power post-Hurricane Helene, but we’ve got a generator chugging away over at my daughter’s house. So I thought, Hey, let’s do something domestic and wildly outdated!—like laundry.
The washer whirred to life, did its thing, and next thing I know I’m standing outside with a fistful of damp clothes and no dryer. Cue: the clothesline. A mythical device I haven’t interacted with since disco was still a viable music genre. We’re talking 45 years, folks. Forty-five.
There I was, channeling my inner pioneer woman, clothespins in hand, trying to remember which items go where (Is it shirts to the left? Undies to the back? Who writes the rules?!). The sheer ridiculousness of it all hit me like a slap from a wet sock.
Suddenly I was laugh-crying. Like, full-body, gasping-for-air, neighbors-consider-calling-someone laugh-crying. Alone. In a 3-acre yard. In broad daylight.
Turns out, I’ve been just slightly on edge since Helene’s rampage, and apparently this was my therapy session. Eventually, I gathered my wits (and dignity), strolled back into the house like nothing had happened, and resumed pretending I’m fine.
Oh—and that photo? Not our clothes. My husband and grandson would haunt me forever if their unmentionables became online content.