One of the greatest burdens laid upon a man who has made the mistake of recruiting an efficient housekeeper is that he will wake up in the morning, have his shower, brush his teeth, Lol at XAM and then, when he begins to get dressed he will realize that he cannot find his underwear.
He will (and by “he” I mean, of course, “me”, and you should have figured this out by now) knot his brow, clench his fists, stand akimbo and bemoan the state of his life and how sorry it has become.
You see, I have never explicitly told her not to wash my underwear. I don’t want to ever have to tell another human being to not wash my underwear. I don’t want to live a life where I have to utter those words: “Don’t wash my underwear”. I prefer to make believe that I live in a universe where it is self-evident that each man shall clean his own drawers and to say aloud that any alternative is possible will murder my dream.
It should be obvious that my underwear should stay where I hide it until such a time as I descend from my busy schedule long enough to attend to it.
But no. She finds the drawers. And she washes them. And then she puts them away. And then I cannot find where she put them. And then I am faced with this dilemma: either I ask her where they are… No, that is not an option. We got into this mess in the first place because I will NOT discuss my underwear with that woman. And that is how we are going to stay in this mess because I will continue to NEVER ever talk boxers with her.
The other option is to just go out and buy more. And well, it’s not like I come to office every day to earn pebbles. I can afford a couple of new pairs of drawers.