A week or so ago, my husband David received a call from one of his oldest friends.  They became friends over forty years ago, but they’ve been estranged for the last three.  No calls, no letters, no contact.  Their last exchange was a “Dear John” letter response to a postcard David had written to his friend. David was told to never contact him again. Which David respected, for the last three years.

All was immediately forgiven.  From the side of the conversation I could hear, there was laughing and a lot of catching up.

The conversation was long.  Which somewhat interrupted my own plans for that morning.

To sneak in a load of laundry behind my husband’s back.

Laundry has become an irritant for me.  It’s a very easy task.  We’ve had a washer and dryer in every home we’ve lived in together for the last 25 years.  And my memory is that when we first moved in together, he’d do his laundry and I would do mine.

But since I’ve retired, it seems we are experiencing laundry creep.  He will ask me when am I doing a laundry, so that can we do our laundry together.

Let me tell you.  There is no such thing as doing laundry together.  It’s a one-person job.  Doing laundry “together” means I do the laundry.

My husband and I travel.  A lot.  In fact, the postcard that led to the estrangement was sent from one of our overseas trips.  My routine, in preparation for a trip, is to wait until the day before we leave to do a thorough laundry.  That way I have my pick of what to pack, and the sheets and towels are ready for our return.  Well David has decided he wants to be a part of that laundry, too. 

And, it has expanded from there.

“When are you doing a laundry next?  I’m starting to run out of socks.”

“When did it become my job to do your laundry?  You know how to do laundry.  You used to do it all the time.”

I am ashamed to say, it has gotten to the point where I am sneaking around doing laundry when he’s not home, so that I don’t have to do his, too.

One time, when David took me down to Southern California to meet his mother, he brought a load of dirty laundry with him.  I couldn’t believe it.  I would no more have brought a load of laundry to my mother’s house than fly to the moon.  Doing your own laundry was part of being a responsible adult.  I was so shocked that I actually spoke to his mother about it.   “You don’t have to do David’s laundry for him.  We’ve got our own washer and dryer.”  You want to know how she responded?  She said, “It’s a little thing.  Anything I can do for him, I’m happy to do.”

OK.  I’m happy to make my husband a cocktail.  For me, that’s a fun thing, and I do that for us just about every evening.  But doing laundry?

Before my husband and I moved in together, I lived across the street from a wash and fold.  You drop off your bags of laundry, and two days later it’s returned to you in blue paper packages tied up with string.  Really.  I’m not making this up.  It was Sound of Music across the street from my apartment, and clean folded laundry was one of my favorite things.

But of course, I gave that up once we moved in together and had our own washer and dryer.  It was a luxury of singlehood that disappeared with adulthood.

Adulthood.  David and I just feel differently about the laundry.  For me, it means responsibility.  For him, well, maybe it’s part of his love language.  Unconditional love means you’ll do my laundry.  Like mom used to do.   Or, maybe unconditional love means “we” can do our laundry “together.”  I just don’t buy it.  For me, laundry is a chore, just as easily done alone.

When David got off the phone with his old friend, he was happy like a child.  He had reconciled with his lost friend.  A friend who frankly had said some astonishingly cruel things to him.  Things so cruel, I myself had to wonder if I had been in his place, could I be so forgiving.  But David’s joy was boundless.  As if he’d been living with a dark cloud that had miraculously disappeared.

Last night, David put his own laundry in the washing machine, asked me what the setting should be, then added the soap.  Me, I waited until this morning when he was gone to sneak in my own load.

He’s learned to do laundry. Maybe I can learn to do forgiveness.