"My ex-husband divided people into two groups, the crumplers and the folders. He was obviously a folder..." —Name Withheld, from "The Woman Who Irons the News: In Quest of the Quintessential Quirk", by Judy Reiser, in the May 2005 AARP Bulletin.
My poor father. He wonders where two parents who are both such precise folders could have gone wrong to produce a crumpling daughter. I don't crumple everything. I fold paper bags neatly. I fold clothes nicely in suitcases. I refold newspaper sections, even after I've done the crossword puzzle. I fold much of the clean laundry, although I started crumpling the teen son's underwear since it all gets heaped on the floor of his room right next to the dirty heap.
What upsets my dad is my treatment of plastic grocery bags. I wad them into the tiniest crumple possible, then stuff them into a woven container to keep squishing them further. The woven container looks like a Baltimore oriole nest, and it makes me happy to have a use for it.
No, those aren't my ankles.
This is how my parents save plastic grocery bags.
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