I was folding laundry in my living room the other day. It was going smoothly (I know you were worried. As you should be. Folding laundry is a harrowing experience). Nothing out of the ordinary was happening. Well, except for the fact that I was actually folding laundry. It must have been a full moon.
The torture It was almost over.
Then, I pulled out something disturbing from beneath the small hill that had moments before been a rather large mountain of clothes.
I don’t know what happened.
Where they came from.
What it means.
Well, look for yourself:
Yes, these were in my laundry.
My daughter is fourteen.
I cannot recall ever purchasing her tights when she was a baby.
And even if I had, how could they resurface fourteen years later in an entirely different house, three washing machines later?
This leads me to believe these are not hers.
But whose are they?
Now I am worried they are mine.
Did my tights shrink that much?
Is it possible?
It couldn’t be.
Not with my mad laundry skills.
Or are all of the gnomes in my house having more fun at night than I could imagine?
Are these the hose of a racy imp?
Should I be touching these?
And if my gnomes are not having scandalous romps at night, what are they? Where did they come from?
I feel like a grown up Wendy finding Peter Pan’s shadow.
You don’t think. No. It couldn’t be possible. But what if…
Well, could these tights be Peter Pan’s?
This leads to many disturbing images in my head.
Now, what shall I do with these? They are obviously important. I need to decide if I want the owner to return for them. Or just leave them be. This is really all too much for me. And my imagination.
And this is why I don’t do the laundry.
Before this I wouldn’t be laying awake at night worrying that a fairy tale is going to come and take me away to another land.
Full of magic.
Where I would never grow old.
“Peter!Peter! I’ve got your tights! I’m ready to go!”
…I hope there’s no laundry to do there. Although Tinker Bell’s pants shouldn’t be too hard to fold.