The pinnacle of my laundry career was when I was in the Army. Although not a particularly great soldier, I had the laundry skills of a professional.

Not only did I wash whites with whites and dark with dark, just as my mother had instructed, but I was also an expert with spray starch. If the Army, motivated by some twisted sense of decorum, wanted the creases on my fatigues to be razor sharp, then razor sharp they would be.

When I left the military, my laundry expertise eroded. Civilian life demands so little when it comes to clothing upkeep that I backslid, becoming just another non-GI Joe.

If I didn't have enough dirty clothes to justify separate loads for white and dark, I would cheat. The whites gradually dulled to gray, but since the transition was never abrupt, I figured no one would notice.

Maybe they didn't. Unfortunately, every so often something new and brilliantly colored would sneak into the wash. After one unfortunate incident, all my underwear emerged pink. And stayed pink for nearly two years.

This created anguish. I'm not a pink kind of guy, but I wasn't about to throw out clothing with plenty of wear left.

Another time I played Russian roulette with a mixed load of laundry and ended up with green underwear. Green wasn't so bad. People thought I was an environmentalist.

Between pink underwear and green underwear and underwear that looked plain dingy, I disgraced all that my mother stood for.

She was a Tide loyalist. When she pulled a sweet-smelling load of snowy whites from the washer, she glowed with satisfaction. She wanted clothes that were not merely clean, but radiantly clean.

Marriage did wonders for my appearance. My wife happily took over the laundry chore. Occasionally I'd do a load of whites and slosh in some bleach, in memory of Mom.

When I remarried, I became persona non grata in the laundry room. This was Cheryl's domain. She didn't want me fiddling with knobs or recalibrating cycles or letting clothes sit in the dryer too long.

During the first two years I never did a single load.

It was emasculating. Soldier Courtney did laundry, but civilian Courtney did not. I felt robbed of my manhood.

A while back, with Cheryl away and the laundry stacking up, I pulled out the whites hamper and threw everything in the washer. My old skills hadn't deserted me. I turned out a perfect load.

When Cheryl came home, she was pleased, but not pleased. Our domestic division of labors did not call for me to do anything with dirty clothes except leave them alone.

She said she appreciated my wanting to help out, but could I please refrain myself. If later, behind my back, she rewashed my load, I wouldn't have been surprised.

Emboldened, I took advantage of another Cheryl absence to do a load of dark. As with the whites, I emptied the hamper and let 'er rip.

A funny thing happened between my dumping the darks into the washer and pulling them out of the dryer. Several items -- presumably Cheryl's -- emerged shrunken.

When I say shrunken, I mean tiny. They could have dressed a doll. I was in trouble.

A lesser man would have destroyed the evidence. What jersey? What sweater?

I did not. Instead, I neatly folded them into a Cheryl pile.

Days passed without accusations. I told myself that these shriveled articles had been stretch jerseys and sweaters that expanded to fit.

No so. I looked up from the paper one evening to find Cheryl standing over me, holding a jersey fit for a Barbie. Ruined, she said. This top never goes in the regular wash.

I didn't get it. What was that thingie doing in the hamper if it wasn't to be washed with my jeans and socks?

It was at the bottom of the hamper, she said. Awaiting special handling.

How was I to know?

Exactly, she said. I couldn't have known. Perhaps the lesson is: don't mess with the unknown.

I've now pulled back from doing the laundry. At least with darks that are too sophisticated. Whites may be more my league.

All this makes me wonder how I ever survived in the Army, where dress codes are exacting and woe be it to the soldier who shows up in formation wearing pink.

There was a time when I was young enough to defend my country AND do my own laundry. Clearly, those days are over.