I am married to

the lion of the laundry room.

He’s particular,

but he’s not wrong.

From The Boston Globe

A long time ago, in my youth, I dashed a hoped-for romance by shrinking a sweater. It was green and belonged to a man I held in great regard. He was not pleased. My hopes for a romance were ruined, and I resolved to never again launder anyone else’s clothes. It was a vow I kept for nearly a decade, until my first child was born. Then I figured it was OK to bend the rules: I’d wash the baby’s clothes until he was old enough to complain about my lack of competence.

I am a fool in the laundry room. The collection of magical blue powders and elixirs intimidates me. I stuff everything into the machine, tangled and inside-out, and sneak a peek at the instructional chart on the detergent bottle, hoping for the best. Then the dial is spun like a roulette wheel. Round-and-round she goes, and where she stops, nobody knows. If the nylons get pummeled along with a load of blue jeans, so be it.

Partly because of my nonchalance, dime-size stains and marks appear on my clothes about 36 hours after I buy them. I have learned to place scarves and brooches strategically, and throwing on a blazer always helps, too.

The gods have a sense of humor: they send me a man who has an unparalleled aptitude for turning out towering stacks of crisp, clean, fresh-scented laundry. He is methodical, almost religious, in his rituals. He adds niceties like bleach and spray starch. HE adds detergent at a specific, scientifically determined nanosecond in the wash cycle. Even ancient tee shirts get the royal treatment, being draped majestically over the wooden drying rack. He has taken hand-me-down baby clothes and removed stains that have been embedded there through four or five infants. If he can’t banish a stain, nobody can. Should the Vatican ever set aside sanctity in favor of soapsuds and wish to have the Shroud of Turin neatened up, my husband’s the guy for the job. The man’s ability goes beyond simple talent. It would not be an exaggeration to say he has a gift. He sets no store in lemon fresh ‘n’ borax, whatever that is. He claims that high-quality laundering is the result of conscientiousness, rather than a particular product.

I suspect, though, that he’s got a genetic edge. His mother has the same talent, sharpened by raising seven children. She once put a silk blouse through the spin cycle with no ill effects. In my hands, the blouse would have promptly gone to that Great Hamper in the Sky.

Nonetheless, I still do my own laundry, and we divvy up the kids,’ depending on who notices that there are no clean pajamas in the dresser drawers. Sometimes, though, I turn to my husband for a consultation, having failed to remove the inevitable shadowy, oval mark. (His other gift is his homemade spaghetti sauce, which is excellent). I hand him the garment, along with a full report on my efforts. I don’t want him to think I’m not trying.

Usually, he shakes his head dispiritedly.

“You didn’t use stain remover, did you?”

I nod vigorously, having been unjustly accused.

“Did you let it set for ten minutes?” he asks.

The man does not mean nine minutes; nor does he mean eleven. He means ten. Well, no. It was probably more like seven minutes. I was in a hurry. I had to get to the pediatrician’s office and wasn’t included to spend my time baby-sitting a sweatshirt. So I confess.

“You’re not really making an effort,” he indicts me, quietly.

He’s right. The truth is, I don’t feel like bothering. There are errands to run, articles to write, snacks to prepare, people to contact. There are too many fascinating things to do, and laundry isn’t real high on the list.

Perhaps because I’m the official part-time homebody, I find excitement in small ways: using lots of hot sauce, planting unidentified flower bulbs, reading out-of-town news — and guessing at laundry. Loosen up! I want to yell. Go wild! Throw in a third dryer sheet, for goodness sake! Hey, a woman’s entitled to have some fun.

I suppose my failure to make a proper effort with Woolite is the “or for worse” element to which our wedding vows referred. Sometimes we come to loggerheads, he with my haphazardness, me his his occasional inflexibility (but it’s a very endearing inflexibility, sweetheart).

Maybe that’s OK. After all, we have different last names, go to different dry cleaners and have separate savings accounts. None of those decisions indicates a loss of love, or makes us any less married. We value the same things: education, financial responsibility, and clean clothes. We just have different ideas about how to achieve them.

My energy and his measured ways are a goo balance: everyone has something to offer. I hammered out the deal on the house, while he scheduled the inspections. He also went directly to the basement to check the viability of the heating system. Energy combined with realism. I think it’s a fine combination.

I may not be lucky in laundry, but at least I was lucky in love. It means something, that two people who are so different can live together peaceably, even happily. We have been told that we make a handsome couple. One thing is certain: our clothes are clean.

And his have been neatly pressed.