ran a Fibonacci
sequence to calculate how many
pairs of rabbits we’d have in twelve months
if we started with one pair that birthed another after just one month.
At the end of the year, we’d have 377 pairs of rabbits—a whopping 754 bunnies hopping around our tiny house.
I’ve often said our laundry pile multiplies like rabbits. We should have counted dirty socks and shirts, pajamas and underwear. I’m sure there’s a formula that helps you calculate how quickly the piles grow.
I expect it’s something like the number of kids times the number of mud puddles in a one-block radius divided by the number of laundry baskets you own plus the length of a standard wash cycle, all to the nth degree, n being the number of people who live in your house, equals Mount Washmore.
After five days of denial, I finally had to deal with the rabbits. They were spilling over the sides of the chair I’d stuffed them in, falling off the blanket chest where I’d piled the overflow, lying prone on the floor. So I spent an hour and twenty minutes folding. (The socks alone took half an hour; I’m thinking of pulling a Simcha Fisher and letting everyone fend for themselves if they want a pair of matching socks.) But–at last!–my laundry’s done. For a few hours, anyway.
If you can figure out what kind of poem this is, I’ll give you some of my laundry. I’ll even wash it first—but you’ll have to fold and put away.