The act of doing laundry becomes a production that could transform you into a frequent hand-washer and air-dryer. It could transform you into someone who swings by T.J. Maxx for a pair of kitchen towels and 5 pieces of clearance-rack underwear, to give yourself 5 more days of not having to pull out the granny cart and push a giant bag (not unlike the one Jolly Old St. Nicholas slides down chimneys with) around the corner. Or, in my case, around a couple of corners, up an incline, and across a busy street because the laundromat around the nearest corner is too chaotic and claustrophobic for anyone’s optimal psychological well-being.
Making the trip to the laundromat is just that – like taking a trip. A journey. There’s packing involved - the detergent, reading material, lip balm, phone, chewing gum, keys, the coin purse I use exclusively for storing quarters that’s now falling apart because all of this has exhausted the poor thing too.
If it’s too hot to wear pants and my skirt has no pockets, the tube of lip balm gets shoved down my cleavage.
|Image courtesy of http://openclipart.org|
I taught myself how to do laundry. My mom tried teaching me before I left for college, and I didn’t watch or listen carefully (I may or may not have offered my signature, “It ain’t rocket science” line, or something close to it, as an excuse). She’s been dead 10 years this summer and I never got to ask how her machine-washed clothes smelled prettier than roses without being as overpowerfully fragrant as many other machine-washers’ finished products. It doesn't matter how much detergent I use or what brand, whether I include fabric softener and dryer sheets, whether I’m at a public machine or the private one she once used - none of my freshly washed clothes have smelled as good as hers, but every load I do gives me another chance to create a more similar scent.