I Want To Know in Advance When the World Is Ending So I Can Stop Doing Laundry

When did we all decide women didn’t want the second half of a shirt anymore? Did I miss that meeting?

Have you ever done a load of laundry, forgotten about it, and then left everything in the washer for so long afterward that it manifested an odor that can best be described as “the stench of Satan?”

Then, you didn’t feel like f*cking around with more laundry because you just did a bajillion loads - and WHO EXACTLY IS WEARING ALL THESE CLOTHES???? - so you tried to remedy the situation by tossing everything into the dryer in one damp, possibly moldy pile, throwing in a hundred fabric softener sheets, and sprinkling that mess with baking soda, which, according to the internet, will eliminate laundry odors.

Except, a few days later, when you unload the whole pile onto the laundry room floor, you forget about that little fragrance issue because you’re too busy scavenging through it for the least wrinkled shirt, and then you find one, throw it on and rush out the door because Holy Crap! You’re late for A Thing!!

But on the drive to the Thing, you realize that the Aroma de Ass that is filling your car is coming from you…no…it’s coming from your shirt. Your shirt smells SO bad that you have no choice but to drive with all four windows open, even though it feels 50 degrees out.

You don’t have time to go home and change because you’re going to be late, so your only choice is to drive to the closest boutique - God forbid there be a Target within a reasonable distance from your home - and look through their racks of clearance summer tops, which is actually a collection of designer shirts in fluorescent colors (NO!) cropped (NO AGAIN!) with those floppy sleeves that always end up being dragged through food (OH HELL NO!) You feel palpable waves of gratitude when you find a single solitary tee shirt in a normal length and a semi-reasonable color you typically wouldn’t want to be caught dead in, but today, you don’t care. Nor do you care that it is too small and better suited for someone 30 years younger. Whatever. It doesn’t stink.

You put on your new, overpriced, too-small tee shirt, toss the putrid shirt you had been wearing in the trunk of the car (where it will probably be forgotten and will fester for the next two weeks), and let out a sigh of relief because you no longer smell like a pile of dead fish that washed up on a steamy Florida beach, rotted, and filled the air with nausea-inducing gasses mixed with a whiff of mildew and fabric softener sheets.

Just me, then?