I can’t remember the last time I was this upset. I haven’t been in a mood this bad since that fat girl left All That and my weekly SNICK experience was ruined forever. But this time, it’s much worse. My family’s fine, my grades are excellent and I still have Shanghai Café leftovers in my fridge. Last night, however, laundry proved the bane of my happiness once again.

There I stood in the Denton Hall basement, holding my new, blood-red, anti-Duke shirt in front of me.

“It’s a new shirt, so I should definitely wash it alone,” I thought. A combination of my adventurous nature and lack of quarters prompted one of the worst decisions I’ve made in months. I took a ride on the wild side and put the garment in with a load of mixed colors.

In one fell swoop, I tossed the shirt into the portal, slammed the door, pressed “cold” and rammed the start button. I immediately knew my wardrobe would never be the same.

About 30 minutes later, I swung the machine door open and, as expected, one of my favorite white collared shirts was now my least favorite, pink-splotched, collared debacle. I trudged up to my room and marked another tally on the list. Number of things I’ve ruined in the wash: 394.

It was then I realized laundry might be the industry that has made the fewest advancements since the first caveman soiled his loincloth and needed to clean it. Everything else moves and changes with time, but laundry just can’t seem to break into the 21st century.

Take bread for example. First we sliced it, which was arguably the greatest change in the course of human history. The kinds and flavors keep increasing, and I recently saw a loaf of green, yellow and pink rye bread — just for kids. That’s pure genius.

Laundry, however, needs to get with it. The first washing machine was built in 1851, and the first automatic washer was released in 1908. Since then, all we’ve added are more knobs and varying speeds. But I believe there should be new ways to clean clothes. Stem cells are fascinating, but I implore researchers to get working on the washing worriment. Lasers? Radiation? OxiClean? There has to be something out there that works.

Until that fateful day when the rinsing revolution begins, doing laundry will have the frustrating tendency to make me feel like a complete idiot. How hard can it be? The clothes get wet, cleaned and dried. Nevertheless, I always manage to mangle, shrink, alter, discolor and lose.

What puzzles me most is the case of the stray sock. Not once in my life has a load of laundry produced an even number of socks. If I wear one pair of socks in an entire week because of my extremely contagious and burning foot fungus, the dryer door opens and the sock count stalls at … one. I’ve even done loads of laundry with no socks included (as far as I know), and when all is said and done, how many do I end up with? You guessed it — three. And they’re all mine.

I’ve developed two different solutions to cure my eternal laundry loathing. First, I could try never wearing clothes. I’m investigating the possibility of taking a semester abroad at a nudist colony where I can frolic among the octogenarians and never wash a thing.

The search isn’t looking too promising, though, so I have already adopted the second scheme. I have worn the same jeans for four consecutive days. Febreeze is the new scent of spring. And those three socks better last me until finals.

Geremy Bass is a freshman journalism major. He can be reached at gbass@umd.edu.