I remember the feeling of sheer terror as I walked down the stairs to the basement in our house on Broadway. It just got worse as I got closer and closer to the looming mound of laundry that my sister and I were told to fold. There on that large table, which could sit about 15 people, was a mountain of laundry belonging to at least seven or eight people. I don’t know what we did wrong but the task seemed like a form of punishment. It was a task that if completed, could take nearly three hours. Mind you, we were slow, we hated it that much.
Fast forward ten years and I’m sitting in a laundry mat for three hours because I want to. What a great place to meet people, and when no one else is there, what a great time for thinking. Of course it isn’t just the being there that is great, if it was, the same could be said of the kitchen. What I’m getting at is that every now and then, I find the act of folding laundry to be calming, and as the title suggests, therapeutic. The same goes for doing dishes. However, this is only true in voluntary situations, otherwise, it is still torture.