Laundry
As an avid runner, a klutzy eater, and someone who has dealt with hyperhidrosis as a medication side effect for years, laundry occupies a particularly troublesome place in my life. It's rare that I can re-wear anything, even if I've only had it on for a couple hours and moving into an apartment without in-unit laundry facilities has made my all-consuming relationship with dirty clothes all the more challenging.
Couple this with the fact that I own an excessive amount of clothes, even after the application of the ways of Marie Kondo (apparently everything brings me joy), and the fact I've gone through an horrendous few months a work, where I've been left with little free time, and dirty laundry was beginning to occupy every corner of my tiny studio apartment. Really, when leisure time is at a premium, would you rather do laundry or go to run club? Run club usually come with beer (and occasionally bar trivia), so it obviously wins out. Plus, laundry was not going to help me find a momentary escape from all my worldly troubles.
After months of leaps over a pile socks and undies that only shrunk when I would do enough wash to survive, I decided I hit a point where I could no longer avoid the situation. I engaged in a massive sort operation and trudged across the street to the community laundry room with my first two loads, only to find the entire facility was out of order due to a faulty water heater. I schlepped my stinky wares to the next building over, only to find one of the three machines available. I threw some quarters in the free machine, only to have it give me an error message as I inserted the sixth and final quarter.
I violently pressed the coin refund button a few time. The machine reacted by going back to displaying "Insert $1.50 to wash." I kicked the washer, mostly out of a need to let the universe know of my Speed Queen-induced rage, and picked up my laundry totes to lug them back to my apartment. I unlocked my deadbolt, gave the door a good kick, and threw my dirty clothes and detergent on the kitchen floor, as I broke into an ugly sobfest in the adjacent bathroom.
After allowing myself a minute of uncontrolled emotion, I picked my head up, looked at my now reddened eyes in the mirror and somehow connected this whole episode to my lack of a husband. If I only had a husband, my laundry would be under control. I took a deep breath and realized that a man was likely not going to be any help in this situation. I pulled myself together enough to hunt down my laptop and locate the best-reviewed laundromat in Denver.
I loaded up the car and made the journey across town. I was greeted with at least a hundred gleaming stainless steel washers and dryers, all in working order and available for my laundering pleasure. Faintly, a choir of angels provided appropriate background music for the euphoria I was feeling. I breathed in the refreshing scent of Tide powder and found myself in awe of the soggy tumbling motion of my clothes through the washer window. I took over three folding tables and mated warm socks. With each t-shirt I folded in precise Marie Kondo-style, I felt a growing sense of relief.
Laundry had been accomplished. However, next time it might be easier to just set all that shit on fire.
Couple this with the fact that I own an excessive amount of clothes, even after the application of the ways of Marie Kondo (apparently everything brings me joy), and the fact I've gone through an horrendous few months a work, where I've been left with little free time, and dirty laundry was beginning to occupy every corner of my tiny studio apartment. Really, when leisure time is at a premium, would you rather do laundry or go to run club? Run club usually come with beer (and occasionally bar trivia), so it obviously wins out. Plus, laundry was not going to help me find a momentary escape from all my worldly troubles.
After months of leaps over a pile socks and undies that only shrunk when I would do enough wash to survive, I decided I hit a point where I could no longer avoid the situation. I engaged in a massive sort operation and trudged across the street to the community laundry room with my first two loads, only to find the entire facility was out of order due to a faulty water heater. I schlepped my stinky wares to the next building over, only to find one of the three machines available. I threw some quarters in the free machine, only to have it give me an error message as I inserted the sixth and final quarter.
I violently pressed the coin refund button a few time. The machine reacted by going back to displaying "Insert $1.50 to wash." I kicked the washer, mostly out of a need to let the universe know of my Speed Queen-induced rage, and picked up my laundry totes to lug them back to my apartment. I unlocked my deadbolt, gave the door a good kick, and threw my dirty clothes and detergent on the kitchen floor, as I broke into an ugly sobfest in the adjacent bathroom.
After allowing myself a minute of uncontrolled emotion, I picked my head up, looked at my now reddened eyes in the mirror and somehow connected this whole episode to my lack of a husband. If I only had a husband, my laundry would be under control. I took a deep breath and realized that a man was likely not going to be any help in this situation. I pulled myself together enough to hunt down my laptop and locate the best-reviewed laundromat in Denver.
I loaded up the car and made the journey across town. I was greeted with at least a hundred gleaming stainless steel washers and dryers, all in working order and available for my laundering pleasure. Faintly, a choir of angels provided appropriate background music for the euphoria I was feeling. I breathed in the refreshing scent of Tide powder and found myself in awe of the soggy tumbling motion of my clothes through the washer window. I took over three folding tables and mated warm socks. With each t-shirt I folded in precise Marie Kondo-style, I felt a growing sense of relief.
Laundry had been accomplished. However, next time it might be easier to just set all that shit on fire.
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