I think we all have some form of a closet regimen. Some of us wear something once, hang it up, and then wear it again at a later date. Some of us will wear a pair of pants twice or three times, but forsake the very idea of wearing a shirt more than once. For others of us it’s the other way around. Some of us are fanatics about never wearing anything a second time.
Some of us have hanger rituals, turning the hook one way to remind us that this particular item needs washed, or turning it the other way to signify that we haven’t worn that in such a long time we really must decide if we want to keep it.
We all know someone who never hangs up anything, choosing instead to live out of the basket where the laundry got done and then dumped. For some that’s every week, for others it’s every two. I think the younger you are the less often you do laundry at all, either waiting for a parent to do it for you or waiting until you absolutely have nothing at all to wear before making a mad dash to do just that one shirt you want to wear right now.
Some of the younger folks will do a whole load of laundry and then dump it on the couch to be dealt with ‘later’. I put ‘later’ in quotes because that word doesn’t seem to exist. I happen to have one of those ‘later’ couches. It’s been in my home for about twelve years now.
Some of us have a rule of thumb that if we haven’t worn it in a year, we dispose of it in some fashion – either donate it, trash it, or ask a friend if she wants it.
I think laundry takes a little planning. And of course the older I get the more concerned I am about making sure it’s done frequently. My mad-dash-to-the washer-for-a-particular-shirt days are long behind me.
I do have my own hanger ritual in the closet, but it’s not elaborate. If the hook is backward from everything else, I know it’s due to be laundered. But mostly I’m just picky about the hanger.
I noticed yesterday while I was doing laundry that I kept passing up the smaller hangers in favor of the larger ones. And I wanted the thick plastic ones instead of the metal ones. Of course, sometimes, a different hanger altogether is necessary for that one skirt or blouse that just doesn’t hang right on anything else.
I’ve only ever had a hanger rescue me once. It was that night my youngest daughter had called to say she had locked her keys in the car. It was late at night and she was at a 7-11. No gas station at eleven o’clock at night is the safest place for a young girl to be.
In my hurry to get to her I still managed to think to grab one of those seldom-used metal hangers from the closet before I ran out of the house. I wasn’t sure I knew what to do with it, but somebody might.
When I got there, Youngest was standing outside talking to a couple of friends who had just happened by and were waiting with her until my arrival. She opened my passenger door, saw the hanger immediately, and yelled to her friend, “She brought a hanger!”
Apparently they’d been discussing the topic at length, wishing they’d had one just like it.
After some teeth-gritting maneuvering, they finally got the car unlocked. The hanger was destroyed, but it was okay.
I never liked that one anyway.