In about an hour and a half, my laundry was done and I headed home. We smiled and nodded, said “hi,” nothing too involved, just social pleasantries. I thanked the young woman and spoke with her intermittently while our respective clothes were churning in the machines. “If you set the driers to high, you can have your clothes dry in 20 minutes, ‘cause they spin both ways, you see…” The nice woman dropped what she was doing and walked me through the process, even giving me tips on the best settings for the machines.
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But the dozen or so signs instructing how to acquire and purchase a payment card, how to use each machine, and where everything was had me pause for a moment, which probably prompted another customer to smile at me from the other side of the room and shout, “First time here?” I figured it wouldn’t be a quarters situation anymore, and thankfully I was right. I had not visited a laundromat in probably a decade. So I stuffed my towers of textiles into my sub-compact car (this would have been quite the feat on bike) and drove the mile to the location appropriately named “Dirty Laundry.” But with multiple bins of dirty laundry staring me in the face, I just wanted to get it all done at once. I can’t recall the text back but it was something like, “Umm…OK?” I assume she was understandably puzzled by why I would choose to go to the laundromat when I could just get the laundry done over a few nights downstairs and still enjoy the comforts of home. “I’m gonna go to the laundromat tonight,” I texted my wife Amanda after I got out of work. By the way, for all of you homeowners reading this right now, thinking, “See! See! This is why having a house is better,” I haven’t gotten to the good part yet.
And that’s if none of the other tenants in the five dwellings attached to our unit didn’t have the same idea. I’m not sure why I let my laundry reach such visually displeasing quantities, but did know there was enough there to require a solid day of washing in the single washer and drier that occupied the basement of our apartment building. The growing pile of clothing stacked in mismatched plastic baskets on the southeast corner of the bedroom looked like something out of a delinquent student’s college dormitory.
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