My husband phoned me at the office the other day. When I saw his number flash up I figured it was something important and I needed to take some time out of my schedule to answer immediately.
My phone had other ideas. It dropped the call then had a small seizure for about ten minutes where it couldn’t decide if it was off or on, or if it would ever work again. I need a new phone. Maybe he was calling to tell me that. It’s becoming an evermore important fact in my life.
When I finally got through to him he asked me if my underwear was charcoal. Um, what the hell are you talking about? The underwear I left him with this morning, was it a nice steel grey colour? You mean the underwear I gave to you as part of a whites wash that you were planning to bleach into a shiny pile of gleaming snowy newness again? You’re actually calling to check if I gave you charcoal coloured garments to put in a whites wash, along side my other white blouses and what not?
No mate, nothing I gave you was charcoal when I left the house this morning. Ah. He was afraid I’d say that. You see, it seems there was a black sock that infiltrated his whites wash. But only my underwear was affected. To the point where my underwear is now a deep charcoal colour. On the upside, he informs me that the dye job is perfectly even. Surprisingly so. In fact, he was so surprised at how well the dye took to the white bra and knickers that he had been convincing himself that it must have been charcoal coloured all along.
He was just calling to get charcoal verification from me. I could not give him that. Instead, he gave me a run down of all the historical All Blacks uniforms that could be described as a charcoal grey to match my previously white underwear set. I think this was meant to set my mind at ease.
I didn’t get angry. My husband always does my laundry and I had no intention of letting a grey bra fuck up that gravy train. In fact, I sometimes wonder what it actually would take for me to begin actually adulting properly and doing laundry.
I learnt semi-recently that vaginal discharge can bleach your underwear. Ever worn black knickers, washed them and then the next time you go to wear them realised there’s a blotchy reddish stain in the crotch? That is your sassy vagina’s fault.
I occasionally have had this happen over the years and assumed that someone was just being a little over-zealous with the cleaning products. Someone being whichever mug I had convinced to do my laundry for me. Obviously they would concentrate this bleaching attention on the action area of the panties, that just makes sense. I was a little annoyed at the almost-ruined underwear but took it as a positive; an opportunity to buy even more underwear. I bloody love buying new knickers, so I never spoke up about the stains.
Apparently though, discharge can bleach your black knickers if you’re not on top of your game and washing them straight away.
Yes, I had a wild ride on Google discovering this shit. Thankfully my vagina seems to have calmed the fuck down for the time being as I’m currently the proud owner of many lacy black knickers that seem to have remained that way through multiple wears.
What’s my point? Laundry is just another pain in the arse, out to ruin your day and if your vagina doesn’t mess it all up for you then your husband probably will. You have been warned.