Some days the laundry piles up, and up, and up, and then I realize
that my favorite malong is at the bottom of the heap and it would be
silly for me to rescue it again considering that I had dug it out of
the crumples and folds thrice or four times already.

Then I strip the sheets from the bed and dig up all my towels, sort my
clothes into things I would trust to the washing machine (only my
linen and the pajamas that no one ever sees) and everything else to be
washed by hand. My drying rack is limited, so I pick my favorite
clothes out from all the rest and throw them into a growing pile of
red and orange against the bare gray concrete walls and gray carpet of
my room. The rest stay behind, like the kids always chosen last for
games. I feel no guilt. Life is too short to wear clothes you don't
love.

The basket now empty, I throw the linen into it and trudge downstairs
to feed it to one of the racks and racks of laundry machines. While
the machine chugs, I divide the hand-washing pile into clothes that
can stand hot water and clothes that require cold water or separate
laundry.

I have a disturbing number of clothes that require particular care,
but I like them too much to give them up. Besides, hand-washing is
almost meditative. Plunging my hands into sudsy water that's almost
too hot, then into soapy water almost too cold to bear, I remember
Japan and its baths.

And then it is a matter of wringing things out and hanging them up to
dry, taking care to separate the items that bleed. Oh, how the malongs
want to color all of my clothes red and purple, and the jeans want to
color everything blue! Now my hand-washed laundry is neatly laid out
at the foot of my bed, all before the machine has finished washing my
load of sheets. I finish hanging up my clothes, and head down to put
my sheets into the dryer.

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