I do my own laundry. I do my own laundry because I am a nice guy and I won’t subject anyone, most of all my wife, to the once-a-month kluster kludge of insanity that is my soiled, used and sometimes still-damp-from-the-gym clothing. My travel schedule has been laughably out of control for two months so I bring home a large brightly colored bag filled with the used shirts and socks and pants and so on, throw it in my closet and grab more clothes for the next trip. Starting this evening, I will embark on a 28-hour trek into the world of wash-dry-fold. Which brings me to my first laundry issue: we have washing machines; we have dryers; why has no one invented the “folding machine?” There are farm and agriculture machines that can husk corn, separate wheat from the chaff, even pick cotton. BUT THE FOLD MACHINE HAS NOT YET BEEN BUILT!?!? That is a startup waiting to happen. I would kickstart the process myself, but I have 7 loads of “colored clothes” to do. Years ago I asked my mother, “Mom? I have to do my laundry. My shirts reek. How do I do it?” She said, “Oh for cry eye! The directions are right on the shirt!” I looked. Sure enough, there it was, written in plain English: “University of Illinois.” It was weeks before I figured it out. And isn’t there some way we could get socks to use some kind of “buddy system” so they’d be responsible for one another and not get lost? I start the process in a few hours. My mind will wander as I organize pants and shirts, separate the stuff for the dry cleaner from the regular laundry, make an elite pile for the “delicates.” Who did the first laundry? Adam and Eve? They put the leaves they wore in a pile to be washed? How did they not mistake laundry for a salad? So here are the essentials that my life has been boiled down to after a decades-long career. It’s all about three words. Starting tonight, here is THE MEANING OF LIFE: WASH. DRY. FOLD.