It never fails.
If I forget a load of laundry in the washing machine, it will contain two things: several light colored shirts, and one fairly new red sweatshirt.
Not only will I forget this load, but when I remember it, the day after or the day after that, it will need to be re-washed, and I will forget to peek and see if the requisite light colors and red sweatshirt are there, thereby washing them together a second time. While they sit in the washing machine all night, all wet and icky, the red sweatshirt will, invariably, rest upon the lightest and most favored shirt, leaving large pink splotches on one side of the shirt only.
If it were on both sides, I could pass it off as some kind of fashion pretense. But no, the splotch will be single sided, and in a manner that suggest “this loser can’t do her own laundry.”
The rest of the clothes will have this faint, but obvious, pinkish glow.
You know, the same pinkish glow most people wind up with once, maybe twice, over a life time of doing laundry. The same pinkish glow that many men purposely attain in order to convince their female significant others that laundry is best left out of their hands.
You know, the thing a moron can avoid doing more than three times.
I’ve done it at least 50 times.
Over a 20 year period.
I’m not even a moron.