I've always enjoyed folding laundry—that moment when it's fresh and toasty from the dryer, and you spread it out on your bed (or table), and for a brief moment your room smells like clean mountain air. When I know no one's looking, I burrow my face into that warm pile for a few minutes before I start to sort through the t-shirts, socks (always minus the pair) and sheets. I listen to my favorite podcasts as I organize each article of clothing, ready to fit neatly and securely in my closet. It gives me a feeling of having accomplished something significant.
All of that goes right out the window if I'm folding a fitted sheet. Because, despite my determined efforts to show it who's boss, and the fact that it's really not rocket science, I fail every. single. time.