<ight, we all know how armpits work. But for the sake of not making exclusionary assumptions, let me define them for you. Armpits are the corporeal form of toxic waste plants. Not lucid enough? Okay, second chance: armpits are the Habsburgs of all the royal human holes (craters?). In other words, much less appealing physically than other holy ;-) monarchs such as sexy, sexy Felipe IV. For those non-royally-inclined, here’s my last shot: armpits are the two spots on the body that more often than not are noisome and, unless you are Cristine Reyes, look pretty unappealing.
(Note: I did have to Google search “actor with best armpits” to find that information and I must say it was a little perplexing to discover the plethora of digitally-uploaded pristine armpits and wonder at how that information became so readily accessible. Certainly someone somewhere has a fetish for armpits. Some of them are pretty nice, but for the sake of this article we won’t go farther down this rabbit/armpit hole).
Oftentimes I find myself wondering one thing: why? Why do my armpits insist on attacking me olfactorily? Why can’t they just stay hidden and taciturn and inodorous?
One theory is that armpits smell bad to not be forgotten. Honestly, if I were an armpit I would probably reek as well for some attention, some of that Old Spice delight or maybe some sweet smooth Dove, lavender-scented. But I’m not an armpit, I’m a human, and my armpits are one of my greatest impediments and the primary feature of myself that coerces me to do that dreaded domestic task of laundry.
Why is doing laundry so irksome to me, and maybe you? Probably for two reasons:
1. I feel like my time is more important and doing laundry will never take precedence over, let’s say, indulging myself in a prolonged state of listlessness, writing sad poems, watching bunnies play or get eaten, trying to call my mom and her not answering, etc. Laundry simply doesn’t make the cut. It is even below clipping my nails in the hierarchy of the likeability of self-care necessities.
2. People. People who do laundry and get a little thrill from doing laundry, really, for some reason, grate at me like a cheesegrater going at that fine, sweet parmesan. Don’t you know those people? Who are like “Ohhh I’ll have a lowkey night tonight and maybe do some laundry,” with a little twinkle in their eye and a sigh of domestic bliss? Excuse me, you might get off to the thought of doing laundry, but I certainly don’t need that in my space. Or those people who love to complain about needing to do laundry. “I really have to do my laundry! Ugh, I just have so much laundry to do! Just gotta do it! Laundry, laundry, laundry!”
People in general, actually, seem to have all the answers. Doing laundry might be one of them. “Hey Peep, you should do laundry. You should maybe clean up the almond particles from your bed so you don’t accidentally consume ants mid-slumber. Also maybe address the open wound bleeding down your leg so it doesn’t get infected.” They might even give me neosporin. ALRIGHT OK I GET IT YOU’RE BETTER AT LIFE THAN I AM. Frankly, how dare they. People, am I right?