Mar 2, 2017 4 min read

Twice a week, I pull from the washing machine a wet tangle of beige fabric. Sometimes the tails of the fabric have wrapped themselves around the agitator, causing a groundswell of cursing as I work to pull it all free. This last time, the fight became so violent the washing machine closed its lid on my head.

The tangled mess is all bandages I use to wrap my left leg, a daily routine made necessary by the lymphedema swelling that resulted from radiation therapy. They look more or less like Ace bandages but are three times the length.

After I’ve unwound my leg, I toss the wraps into the washer with T-shirts and other smallish things. During the 20 minutes in the wash, the wraps snake themselves around everything, including each other, and emerge at the end of the cycle an impossible clump. The bandages become boa constrictors, strangling my bras and T-shirts. I toss the clump into the dryer, never losing hope that the warm air will loosen things.

The clump emerges dry but still tangled, and thus begins the unraveling. I have cooked elaborate meals that have taken less time. Devising a new health-care law is less complex.

I approach the tangle from the middle and work my way outward. I retrace the steps of the longest wraps, weaving them back through loops and twists until I have tails long enough to pull through, which usually just tightens into new knots. One time, the knot was so impossible I threw it away and ordered a new supply.

Scientists spend time thinking about this, and they have a few theories. There’s something called “knot theory,” and it falls under the banner of mathematics. The theory holds that things get tangled because they can. I’m bad at math and I could have told you that, but I’ll continue.

Apparently, there are 10 billion different types of knots and tangles, all of which are just hovering there in our washing machines and our pockets and purses, ready to mess with us. According to the theory, every place at which one bit of string or cord touches another, a knot is waiting to happen. All it takes is a bit of motion to cause the knotting.

This is why headset cords get tangled after just a few seconds in your pocket, and why necklace chains cannot be trusted when stored in a box. Remember your Christmas tree lights from last season? They are in your attic now, doing a tangly ballet in the storage box. And isn’t this one of the ways in which dreadlocks form? If left to their own devices, strands will roll around with each other. Scientists say heavier strands tend not to tangle as much, but that’s not true. I was using the coin-operated vacuum at the car wash and the hose got tangled while I was using it. It was going after my arm.

It’s been suggested that I isolate the wraps in a mesh bag for washing. I tried that, and the bandage ball was even tighter. You could have bowled a strike with it.

The wraps are expensive, and I have to use and wash them at least a dozen times each. I suppose I could hand wash and hang each to dry, with enough space between them to keep them out of trouble. My house would be strung with stalactites.

And so, I will set aside time for unraveling – unless some math whiz out there has a better idea. What do you say – how do I tackle the tangle?

Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.