(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today in the spring of 1989)

Of course I should have known better, but still you’d think a responsible guy could get away with an honest mistake once in awhile.  This story is circulating all over town, so I may as well tell you before you hear an exaggerated version from someone else.

To start, I’ll note that i’ve been washing my own clothes since 1982.  At first, I didn’t do them all the time.  I still relied on mom quite a little, but I gradually washed more and more often.  Toward the end of our college years, I started washing clothes for my wife-to-be, too.

She took a turn once in a while, but the responsibility fell primarily to me.  Once we were married, washing became “my job.”  She still helps out with the folding and sorting, but it’s more than a year since she’s gone to the laundromat and washed the clothes from start to finish.

Don’t interpret this as complaining.  I don’t mind washing clothes.  Mary hated it, so I do it.  It’s a compromise that works for us.

But washing clothes isn’t always an easy job.  It requires decision making ability. 

“Permanent press cycle or color cycle?”

The job also requires attention to detail.

“Where did those little pieces of wet tissue come from?”

And the ability to work fast.

“Get those shirts out of the dryer before they get wrinkled!”

So, you can see how a guy could make a mistake once in a while, right?  And I don’t make many when it comes to washing clothes.  I’m good at it and I take pride in my work.  But I slipped.  I should have know better, but I did it anyway.

I was down.  It was, as far as clothes go, my darkest hour.  You’d think Mary would comfort me and offer me support in my time of need.  Think again.

She came strolling into the laundromat, took one look at my shirts, and in a voice that echoed across the room, asked,” Where did you get those pink shirts?”  Then she laughed and laughed and laughed.

I’d been trying to hide the shirts behind my other, darker hanging clothes.  I like white shirts, but even I know you don’t keep white shirts white by washing them with new red slacks.

“How many did you dye like this?  You can buy pink shirts in the store, you know?” She boomed, holding a shirt up to the light.  Then she laughed and laughed and laughed.

“Be quiet!” I hissed.

“Why?” She asked.  Oh look!  This one matches the color of your ears,” she squealed.  “You ‘re not embarrassed, are you?”

“No, not in the least,” I said as she laughed and laughed and laughed.

We went out with friends the other night.  “Is that a pink shirt you’re wearing?” Someone yelled when I walked in.  Then everybody laughed and laughed and laughed.

From now on, I’m dry-cleaning only kinda guy.