For most of my life, I folded my underwear with precision—panties, bloomers, skivvies, whatever you call them. Each pair tucked neatly into rows, as if they were auditioning for a catalog shoot. Then, at 68 years old, I had a quiet epiphany: why am I doing this? That day, I tossed them into the drawer without ceremony, and it felt… liberating. No more folding. No more fuss. Just freedom in cotton form. I stood there, smiling at the chaos, wondering why it took me so long to let go of such a tiny, tidy habit. It was oddly profound.
I think it started with the idea that folded things meant order. That even the smallest garments deserved respect. My mother folded hers. I folded mine. It was tradition, routine, a quiet act of control. But somewhere along the way, it became a chore. A pointless ritual that didn’t spark joy, just obligation. And when I finally stopped, I realized how much space I’d given to something so trivial. My drawer didn’t explode. My life didn’t unravel. In fact, it felt more honest—like I’d finally given myself permission to be imperfect.
Now, I open that drawer and see a tumble of fabric, a soft rebellion against decades of domestic discipline. It’s not messy—it’s alive. Each pair is still clean, still wearable, still mine. But they’re no longer lined up like soldiers. They’re lounging. Relaxed. Like me. I’ve started questioning other habits, too. What else have I been doing just because I always did? Folding underwear was the gateway. The first domino. And it’s led to a surprising amount of introspection.
I’ve told a few friends, and reactions vary. Some gasp, some cheer, some confess they’ve never folded theirs to begin with. One friend said, “You’ve joined the drawer anarchists.” I laughed. Maybe I have. Maybe this is my quiet revolution. It’s not about laziness—it’s about letting go of unnecessary rules. About choosing ease over expectation. And about finding joy in the simplest acts of defiance. Who knew underwear could be so philosophical?
I still fold other things—towels, shirts, the occasional napkin. But underwear? Never again. That drawer is my sanctuary now. A place where comfort trumps convention. Where I remind myself that life doesn’t have to be so neatly packaged. That sometimes, the best decisions come late. And that liberation can be found in the most unexpected places—even between the socks and pajamas.
So here’s to the unfolded. To the crumpled cotton and the freedom it represents. I’m 68, and I’ve finally stopped folding my undies. It’s a small change, but it feels big. And if you’re still folding yours, no judgment. Just know that the drawer anarchists are out here, living wild—and loving every minute of it.
