Since I’m pretty much a homebody these days, I’m trying to set small projects for myself, things that stretch me a bit but that I can handle without lifting much or bending or whatever, like folding laundry, reviewing piles of saved mail for the shredder, or trying to get a brush through Sunny’ s hair.
Call it Occupational Therapy and also a way to combat the boredom/guilt over the household chores I can’t do yet.
And even though my usual ensemble on most days is one of my tres chic (read, old, comfortable, and slightly worn) cotton nightgowns and a mismatched robe,* I’ve set myself the job of cleaning out my dresser drawers, one at a time, top to bottom, with a little assistance from whichever kid I can snag/nag/bribe.
Today, I tackled my underwear drawer.
With Sunny’s one-armed help,** I pulled out the things that don’t fit any more, the uncomfortable and/or ugly what-was-I-thinking items, and the aged/worn stuff my mother warned me not to wear in case a random bus might be feeling homicidal.
The rest was folded/matched, and put neatly back in the drawer.***
I’m left with a mountain of mismatched socks (including five distinctly different red fuzzy socks… five) that I don’t dare pitch, in case their mates escaped down into the lower drawer (or underneath) and other, say, foundation garments that I already pitched because donating them is impossible…and a little gross.
I honestly can’t believe the discard piles actually fit into that drawer in the first place–I mean, it barely closes now.
But it’s done. And now, all I have left is the bottom drawer of nightmar–I mean, nightwear, which I hope will yield at least some of the matches to the denizens of Sock Mountain.
Because I have no idea how to dispose of perfectly good single socks… we don’t need any more dusters or silver polishers, the craft closet is full, and no one I know wants to make sock puppets…
Any ideas? Heck, I’ll mail them to anyone who wants ’em–and I might toss in a basketful of single baby socks^^ to sweeten the deal…
*Best thing about having a stomach wound: being legitimately excused from wearing pants, at least at home.
True story: I was in Physical Therapy a while back with an older man who was wheeled in once a week. A therapist mentioned that she’d thought he was homebound, since he hadn’t been around lately. He said, “I’m not homebound–I just hate wearing pants!” He was a hoot.
**Sunny’s bike pedal fell off a few weeks ago, just as she stood up to get some power. She nobly cushioned her bike’s fall and was rewarded with several nasty contusions and a broken arm. She’s fine now–in fact, she didn’t even need a cast, just a sling, and she’s all but forgotten to take her OTC pain reliever. So she and I are palling around this summer, until she’s deemed well enough to go back to day camp. Her only real side effect is being seriously bored.
*** That last bit really took it out of me–no one person should own that many socks. Especially that many nearly identical white ankle socks, all of which had somehow been separated from their solemates.
^ I’m usually anti-segregation, but they’ll re-sort themselves by tomorrow, anyway. And probably start partner-swapping as well, darn their round heels.
^^Yes, my younger kid is ten. I told you I have no idea.