Ah jeez. I washed my husband’s pants with the wallet still in the pocket.
‘What IS that pounding sound?’ I remember asking the air halfway through the drier cycle but even then I didn’t get it. I thought there was a sneaker in there or something, but when I looked nope: no sneaker. I slammed the drier door shut and pressed the On button again.
It wasn’t until hours later when I finally pulled the clothes out to fold and smooth them that I felt something heavy in those pants of his. What has he got, a tennis ball in here?
No such luck. It was his wallet. That which was once a smart and tidy fold of leather now resembles a very small damp badger rolled up in his protective ball.
Meaning it looks sort of …rounded.
And afraid somehow.
Never mind that even today, a full 48 hours after I threw it in that load of wash and soaked the whole thing with the usual slimey shot-glass of Tide, the thing is STILL damp. Oy!
Extracting the items from inside the wallet was a job too. It was like trying to deconstruct a sheet of baklava.
All his business cards. All his careful notes. All reduced to pulp.
I just feel awful.
There’s only one silver lining: His credit cards appear to be as healthy as ever – unless there’s some horrifying truth about the magnetic strip and two hours of Pounding, Rinsing and Roasting on High that I don’t yet know about, please God no. Because after all, even a highly forbearing man has his limits.
And this is that forbearing man. And these are the pants.