By now you've probably heard about the transit strike in New York City. It has impacted thousands of lives. I never expected mine to be one of them. Apparently, misfortune has long arms and can reach even the most innocent among us. I'm talking, of course, about...my sweaters.
They were terrific sweaters--always there to make me look my best, to enfold me in a warm hug when I needed one. Ah, my poor sweaters...
Let me back up a bit. You see, with no subways to ride into work, my husband worked from home the past few days. And thoughtful man that he is, he thought he'd do some laundry to help lighten my load a bit. I'm sure many overworked women out there are sighing in envious delight at such an imagined pleasure. However, fantasy is far different from reality, my friends.
My husband only knows to wash by color (i.e.: reds don't get washed with whites unless you want a load of pinks.) So in his mind, there was absolutely no harm in washing my red sweater with his red sweats and my black sweater with his black sweats (and tumbling the loads in the dryer to finish the project.)
You guessed it. I now own several expensive dustrags--in a variety of colors. Something tells me there will be a few shirt boxes under the tree for me come Christmas morning.
This afternoon the union voted to go back to work and tomorrow my husband will do the same. Too late for my sweaters. But on the bright side, at least he didn't have time to get to my lingerie!