The laundry is never truly finished. It is one of those jobs you can never say is completed. It's not just because someone always adds a towel or a shirt to the hamper just as I've put away the last washcloth. No. The true culprit is the sock.
I'm sure you're familiar with the villain of whom I speak. The lone sock that loses its mate somewhere between foot and clean laundry pile. I have a little stack of them. Tennis socks, argyle socks, lacy socks, a navy blue one. All without a partner. Where is that other sock? What happens to the second half of the pair? It isn't under the bed or behind the couch. I've looked. It isn't squished between the washer and dryer. I've looked there too.
I'm sure the lone socks would like to find their mates. If not, they will soon be paired with Pledge lemon oil furniture polish. Destined to never grace the respective feet of their owners ever again. Instead they face a fate of dust and dirt. Grime and muck. Poor socks. Oh you hidden socks. I give up! Come out, come out wherever you are! And bring my missing earring with you please.