I fold. I’m not playing poker, or strip poker, or dress poker in a culture that believes clothing is for perverts. No, I’m talking about one of my least favorite weekly chores: folding laundry. What’s ironic about this sentiment is that I really enjoy putting clothes into the washer and/or dryer. It’s the act of restoring them to their neatly folded state that drives me crazy. For some reason, I can never manage to get them to that seemingly unattainable status of being: Department Store Display Nirvana. Seriously, how do those Grunts on the Frontlines of Retail manage to get t-shirts, jeans and those trendy womens’ jackets that look like big burlap sacks with armholes so perfectly tucked and contained every single time? Of course, I don’t want to feel like I’m walking into The Gap every time I open my bedroom door. That would be plain creepy. Who wants to sleep in a room full of twenty-somethings wearing Backstreet Boys Concert Head-sets and towing a cloud of androgynous perfume by the pleats of their khakis? You know what? I’m sure a few of you would just love that. And that’s OK. It’s not my cup of tea, but to each his or her own. Back to folding. You wanna know what I REALLY hate? Folding fitted sheets. Is there any activity more demoralizing than trying to fold a fitted sheet? It’s like one big reminder of all your limitations, mental and physical, rolled up into a ball of elastic evil. Maybe I should just go for broke and start buying new ones every time we change the sheets?