I’m sitting here grumpily avoiding folding my laundry thinking to myself that someone really needs to invent some sort of contraption that folds your clothes for you. Wouldn’t that be nice?
|Ready, set, FOLD!|
But then I remember that it won’t be long before I’m back in Spain and won’t have the luxury of a dryer. I’ll have a clothesline outside my kitchen window and the Andalucían sun, leaving all my t-shirts crunchy and my jeans a little looser with every wash. The forty minutes it takes for most clothes in the dryer will soon turn into a full day. Or three. Or five in the winter.
|Confession: this pic is from my semester in Rome, but you get the idea|
However, stiff socks, jeans still wet after 24 hours, and worrying about clothes falling off the line will all only mean one thing: SPAIN.
As much of a pain in the butt the process of washing clothes is over there, just thinking about it makes me happy because it means Spain is that much closer. I can’t wait to be pulling my non-soft, non-fluffy, non-warm clothes off the line. Afterwards I’ll get to head down to the Malagueta for a beach day, enjoy a caña in Plaza de la Merced, meander down Calle Larios, or maybe even hop on a plane or bus to some other fantastic destination.
But for now, I’m folding my clothes and counting down the days. (33)