So, as some of you may have guessed, i am not a housewife.

I do not know how to get stubborn stains off my shirt, I just started to cook, like, yesterday, instead of just shoving the next best thing into the microwave and hoping for the best and I’ve never particularly enjoyed cleaning. But living on your own, without your parents to do some of the work, comes not only with the sweet, sweet freedom to do as you please (so, nothing’s changed) but also with a great amount of responsibilities and housework to be completed (both things I am not fond of). 

However, things must get done and so I, courageous as I am, decided to do the laundry. 

Now, it’s not the first time I’ve done this. I have, like many others, been taught a young age how to use the washing machine, what clothing to put in and what to hand wash, and I have been tested on several occasions by my mother if I can apply those theoretical skills to everyday life. I passed. several times.

So the laundry I did. Against what one might assume, this story is not about how I shrunk half of my clothes (tho, i did manage to shrink one dress i really loved and I am still crying about it). This is the story of the aftermath. Now buckle up, kids.

The laundry is done and clean and nothing’s been stretched out or shrunk or otherwise damaged. I am proud of myself. I hang up the socks and underwear on the radiators, hoping for a quick dry. There are a bunch of towels in the load, big, huge ass beach towels and there is no room for them on there. Since we have yet to acquire a drying rack, I decide to put them on hangers and hang them on the handle of our bathroom window, because obviously, towels dripping on tiles in the bathroom is manageable. 

Mind you, we live in a fairly old building, the windows are high and so are the handles. I, short as I am, can still reach them – barely though.

The towels are drying in peace, it is approaching midnight and I decide to go to bed. 

It is 5:30 when I wake with the need to pee. When I finally decide I am mentally prepared to leave my cocoon of warmth, I hear a noise. The noise is kind of a rough, scratchy sound and it’s definitely coming from the hallway. Then a loud clank. Then nothing.

Scared shitless, I try to wake my boyfriend, but he just keeps brushing me off and turns around. Okay then, I think, sometimes a woman has to take matters into her own hands. 

I stalk through the bedroom, grab a box cutter lying on the floor. Quietly thank some higher entity for this, because usually we don’t keep knives in our bedroom. I brace myself, take a deep breath and open the door.

Nothing. For a moment my guard is lowered and I, convinced I can safely pee, move towards the bathroom.

There’s a dark, big silhouette against the bathroom window, in shape and height resembling an average but strong man and I leap in shock. I slip on a bath mat, scramble for purchase, wielding my box cutter to fight off the unknown danger but I fall. It is on my way down, pulse still racing, that I, now on the floor and utterly humiliated, realize my mistake.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry because I thought I had to kill a bunch of towels, hanging harmlessly from my bathroom window.