Laundry Love and Marriage

Last night I was watching husband sort a load of clean laundry I had abandoned in the washing machine. We talked about our day, while he hung up all my bras so that they could drip dry.

I usually toss everything in together and then end up throwing on a hot bra from the dryer with a bent hook that sears my back. But here he was, my awesome guy, taking the time to separate them from a sodden ball of clothing and hanging them up one by one.

I look at him. Then I look at the row of clean, giant cotton bras. Bras with three hooks, wide padded straps and full coverage. Colors of pink, white, beige and pink again. Bras that my Grandma would have approved mightily of. Bras that keep the girls in place while you scrub a floor or hoist a child into a bath.

And so I motion towards that row of dripping elastic and say, "Really sweetheart. It's a wonder you don't just take me here and now."

And he tilts his head towards a pile of his clean boxers I had folder earlier. Faded colors with shot and stretched out elastic. Then says, "Back at ya."

And so we ditched the laundry and headed upstairs, giant bra, worn out boxers and all.