I have done a lot of difficult things.
I gave birth without pain killers. I moved across country with my four year old, to a place where I knew virtually no one. I hiked Cadillac Mountain with a child strapped to my chest.
But I have never, ever successfully folded a fitted sheet.
The massive cloths, with their gathered corners and awkward seams, are an impossibility to me. A surefire failure. A heaping spoonful of humility.
I have laid them on the floor to match up the corners, but that never seems to work. The edges never line up quite right. I have folded them on the bed, on the kitchen table and in midair. Every time, they wound up deranged balls of fabric, shoved onto the top shelf of the hall closet and concealed by the so-easy-a-shrimp-could-fold-them pillowcases.
I need a class, a good tutoring from Martha Stewart or some kind of home improvement channel intervention.
Or I could just say “screw it,” and keep cramming them out of sight.