Recently I suggested to the Man I Married that we get rid of our old hamper. The wicker reeds have been snapping off and leaving our laundry room looking like a forest floor after a windstorm. It’s also difficult to stack because of its flaring shape and won’t fit under the new sink MIM installed despite having no water supply or drain. Let’s just call the sink a hamper.
“You can’t get rid of the hamper!” MIM responded, surprising me with his uncharacteristic fit of sentimentality for an everyday object, when he keeps so little (other than 2 motorcycles, 6 banjos, 1 viola, 1 clarinet, 5 guitars, 1 mandolin, countless harmonicas, and let’s not even start with the cider equipment). Even his first wedding ring is long gone.
We moved into our first apartment together over 27 years ago with that hamper, a hand-me-down from my mom. We carried it up and down two flights of stairs, with bags of quarters, to the laundry room in the basement of our Makiki apartment building, where my nylons once got wrapped around the washing machine’s agitator, and I fled in panic. Yet one more reason to never wear pantyhose. I still feel guilty about leaving the scene of the crime.
At least the hamper doesn’t get smelly, since it provides more and more ventilation over the years.