I cannot fold a shirt to save my life.
I’m not talking about taking a shirt, laying it down on the bed (face down), and slowly and methodically pushing one arm over, then the other, then lifting the bottom up to the middle and the neck line down over that. That’s folding for sissies.
I’m talking about those people who used to work in THE GAP and BANANA REPUBLIC and ABERCROMBIE & FITCH and can pick up a shirt, in mid-air, flip this and flip that and lay it back down on a table in the most awesome-ist, perfect shape ever. These people are my Gods.
I have stood in place with people giving me step by step tips on how to fold a shirt in mid-air, but it always ends up in tragedy, with me and the shirt crumpled up on the ground in a ball of depression. Sure, people are more than happy to offer up a “folding board” for me…
A folding board? You might as well hand me a bike with training wheels and I’d feel just as silly as when you hand me that “I am retarded and can’t fold a shirt in mid-air” training aide. A folding board is like wearing floaties on your arm in a pool. A folding board is like going scuba diving with a scuba instructor holding onto you. A folding board is like jumping out of a plane in tandem with someone who will pull the cord for you.
I will not step forward and accept a folding board. No way, no how.
However, I still can’t fold a damn shirt in mid-air to save my life. And although I continue to try on a daily basis as I pull my warmed clothing from the dryer… It ends up in chaos.
To fold or not to fold… That is the question.
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