I stood on the second floor of an old house, today - folding the pricey underwear of a middle-aged man and his soon to be wife. Her single pair of lacy pink unmentionables seemed a bit out of place amidst the jockstraps and boxers, but they went right in the very same pile. Corner to corner, strap to strap, I mindlessly arranged the belongings of others to the rhythm and rumble of a washer and dryer set upstairs and the distant echo of two more sets a couple of floors below.
Time gives me a lot of room to think in these moments; frivolous work made meaningful by countless ponderings. And then I wonder, if ever, are all of my ponderings worth anything? (Which leads me here.)
So now I sit, looking forward to the morning and a new day. I shall run (or make a fool of myself in the living room to a Denise Austin tape), I shall shower, I shall make breakfast, I shall go revel in Academia, and I shall await what the remainder of the day holds.
Oh, and I'll fold my own underwear.
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