Every Tuesday (or Wednesday/Thursday/Friday/Monday, depending) I get to corral all of those musty towels and stinky socks and jeans that could walk themselves to the hamper and with soap and quarters and mechano-magic turn them into puffballs of clean-smelling goodness so that every Wednesday (or Thursday/Friday/Monday/Tuesday, depending) I feel better reaching for a kitchen towel I feel happier slipping on my favorite pair of underwear I feel rich surveying the multiplicity of choice that is my t-shirt drawer.
But the best thing of all about Laundry Day is Laundry Night when, after a long, hot bath or a long, hot shower (depending), I turn off the lights and turn on the ceiling fan and crawl into a bed fitted with clean, soft sheets just like you get at the Four Seasons.
Some people might think it's better at a hotel when someone else does the washing and the folding and the making of the bed.
I say it's probably better to do it yourself.
You appreciate that bed more when you're pretending to be a Four Seasons maid than a Four Seasons guest.
Most of the time, anyway...