The fear

Well, I may as well confess. I have been doing the bare minimum (no, not wearing the bare minimum you perv. That's just gross.) amount of laundry that I can get away with and still have mostly dressed children. As you can imagine, it is pretty ugly down in the pit of hell (aka the laundry room). Earlier, I was doing the big sort. You know the big sort. The sort you have to do just to find the washing machine before you actually SORT the laundry. Anyway, I had been trying to sort as quickly as possible so it was awhile before I noticed I had been doing something no one should EVER do. I had been touching all of the underwear that was mixed in with the other clothes and I wasn't ONLY TOUCHING IT BY THE WAISTBAND!!! Oh dear, now THE FEAR sets in and the questions begin. What if I touched the stinky butt part? How many times? What if it had been in somebody's crack? Did they sweat? Did I touch anything before I washed my hands? Should I wash my hands again? Can you boil your hands? I smell something odd. Is it my hands? What if everybody can tell? Why is everyone staring at me? Can they tell I now suffer from butt-finger? Will I be ever be able to eat again? How am I going to sort the rest of the laundry? How long would it take if I used tongs? Do my fingers look a little green?
This is what I get for making fun of all of the little quirks that my sisters inherited from the parents that I seem to have escaped. Karma sucks. So does laundry. I have to stop typing now. My fingers are cramping up from trying to type through the oven mitts.