I am not a very domestic person. I never have been. Growing up, I was pretty good at taking out the trash, but doing things inside the house? I missed getting that domestic gene.

I rarely cook, I’m a failure at cleaning, and my partner even yells at me when I try to do the grocery shopping. What am I good at? Hopefully making fun of the stupid things that happen to people every day.

When I retired from corporate life at fifty, I thought I’d give domestic chores another try. My partner Erika was still working, so I thought helping around the house might give her a much-needed break.

Perhaps I could finally master a few easy tasks.

My first goal was tackling the laundry. Our condo only had three sets of stairs, so what could be a problem with that? Unfortunately, the building didn’t have a dumbwaiter, and throwing the laundry from the balcony to the garage wasn’t allowed, so I had to schlep it up and down the stairs.

Of course, it was hard to see the stairs with a big load of clothes in my hands, but I managed to do it without breaking my neck.

I had forgotten that the cost for doing laundry had gone up, so I had to retreat up a flight of stairs to grab some quarters. The first washer was jammed from a neighbor forcing a slug into the slot, so I had to remove all the clothes and find another washing machine. That was fun.

Can the colors be put in with the whites? I couldn’t remember.

Might as well give it a try. My mom told me that hot water was great for washing clothes. The hotter the better. Sounded like a great strategy to me.

So I stuffed the machine with all the clothes from the laundry bag. That sure looks pretty! I shoved in two quarters and went upstairs to tackle a poem.

For some reason, our sheets came out pink and blue. But what’s wrong with that? I am artistic. Having multicolored sheets seemed like a great way to express my creative side.

My partner mumbled a few things before deciding that we could live with these tie-dyed sheets for a few more months, so I continued to help out with the laundry. No more washing the dark colors with the whites.

But my aptitude in this area was still lacking. Take socks for instance. Where do they go? When I put them in the washing machine and transfer them to the dryer, one would somehow disappear.

There must be a hole in the back of the machine where the socks make their great escape. Perhaps they have secret meetings with the eyeglasses I’ve misplaced, and they all have a party.

Once they get tired, they return to where they were lost to give us a cheap thrill when we find them again.

I still have so many orphaned socks stuffed into my drawers. Occasionally, I pour them all out onto the bed and try to find their mates. It’s like a dating service attempting to get them to match.

If I want to wear a particular pair of socks and can’t find the mate, I might wear one that looks similar. I know they don’t quite match, but I wear them anyway. How many people scrutinise your ankles when you’re wearing tennis shoes?

Perhaps I could start a fad by wearing mismatched socks to my improv class. Most of my friends know I’m fairly artistic, and they might think that it’s intentional and that I’m trying to start a fad.

Why don’t they make socks with some Velcro attachment so that they don’t get lost when you wash them? It would be a simple solution to a problem that plagues us all.

As we age, do we all start failing at these easy tasks? I hope not. I don’t think losing socks has much to do with age, but it’s easy to blame ourselves.

After all, I’ve often found my reading glasses with the bananas, behind the vitamin rack, and sometimes in the microwave.

Until then, I’ll keep working on perfecting my laundry skills. God knows what could happen if I gave cooking a try.