The other day I had to do some laundry. I was totally out of undies so it was time to make a trip down to one of the places I dread the most: the laundry room.
Since, the laundry room for my apartment serves the whole complex, I have to walk my laundry over. Actually, since I had 4 loads, I drove my car the entire half-block feeling very silly, but also very lazy.
I don't think I'll ever again live in a place that doesn't have on-site laundry. I want the freaking washer and dryer right in my place of freaking residence. I don't want to even have to walk next door. I don't think that's too much to ask. It's not like St. Louis is overpopulated to the point that housing is unaffordable. I have few luxuries that I allow myself. This is one that I will insist on in the future.
People are weird in the laundry room. No one is ever dressed up. In fact, people are barely dressed at all. They look like they're wearing the very last thing in their closet. Everyone shuffles around with eyes down as if to say: “If you don't look at me, I won't look at you because neither of us really has our going-out-in-public face on.” We nod to each other and ignore each other's eye crusties, dark circles emanating from sweatshirt-covered armpits and jaw slack with un-enthusiasm.
In sitcoms and romantic comedies, people are always meeting and falling in love at laundromats. Its not really happening. Just because you touch hands while beating the quarter machine, which is malfunctioning again, doesn't mean that she's your soul mate. Men, she's not impressed that you do your own laundry. That's not impressive, it's pathetic if you don't. Your knowledge on how to get ink stains out using lemon peel and the best detergent to use with chiffon may score you some points, but since you're so obviously a homosexual, you wouldn't care.
I'd be happy to give up this ‘chance to meet my one and only' for the benefit of not having to keep dryer sheets in the pocket on the back of my passenger seat. I also don't really like having to pull my ‘after sex' towel out of the basket in front of the Pakistani woman with three kids.
I get out of my car and drag all my laundry to the door of the facility. The door is protected by a lock that opens when you hold the passcard in front of it, a passcard I had left in my room back in my apartment a half-block away. Even when I do manage to remember it, opening the door and getting in is not easy to do when one's arms are full of Care Bear sheets. Luckily there was a guy inside who saw my plight and came to open the door.
Wait. Stop. Rewind.
He did come and open the door for me, which was nice of him, but only after emptying ALL of his laundry out of the machine, putting it in the basket, putting the basket on a chair near his backpack, grabbing his detergent and adding it to the pile on the chair and then putting his jacket over the whole thing.
I guess I won't be stealing his laundry…even if that was my original plan…which it wasn't. I could have beat the grime out of my clothes before that guy got to the door.
Maybe his ‘after sex' towel was still dirty, but just looking at him, I doubt it.