Laundry (Cont.)

Here’s the thing, though, I have never in my entire adult life (because my Mom did my laundry for me until I left for college–sad to some, incredible for me) sorted my laundry before I got to the laundry room. So there I am with enough clothes to fill a really small, personal store and they are all wadded up and whites are mixed with darks which are mixed with colors. I do my clothes laundry in three loads–whites, darks, and colors. This does not include my towels and my sheets which also have to be washed, but that’s usually on a separate day because I do not ever need to spend four hours on a menial task such as laundry.


So, there I am in my complex’s laundry room, which is not air conditioned but does have a horrifying looking window that no longer has the screen because someone probably punched it out in a fit of rage, with a giant pile of laundry that needs sorting, a roll of quarters, and also, I’m wearing pajamas. Why, you ask? Well, because, I want everything possible to be clean that I would potentially wear out in public, so I choose my least attractive ensemble and wear that during my laundry escapade.


Once all of my clothes are sorted, I pour in my detergent (and throw in a Color Catcher–Shout, feel free to sponsor me!) and close the lid of the washer. It is at this time that I realize that each load of laundry costs $1.50 per wash. I could honestly save forty orphans with the money I have to waste on doing laundry. They weren’t too greedy, though, because each dry is only $1.25, so maybe I’ll get a $0.49 burrito from Taco Bell tonight if I’m lucky. I grab twelve quarters from my roll and dejectedly put them into the machines and press start. Ah, thirty minutes to do whatever I damn well please. Well, I don’t know if anyone has realized this, but thirty minutes is not enough time to do much of anything. I usually like to use the time I’m doing my laundry to do other household chores like clean my room, bathroom, and kitchen, but at about the 20 minute mark, I’m still trying to get that damn towelette out of the Clorox wipes canister. Then it’s time to go move my laundry into the dryers. I am absolutely the person that is there the second that my clothes are done in the washer. For one thing, I don’t want any of the colors running together, and another thing, if anyone else touched my laundry that I didn’t know, I would freak. So, there I am, as the buzzer goes off on the washers–I throw a couple of dryer sheets into the dryers and, of course, realize that this dryer’s previous lessee was not kind enough to clean out the lint trap. In go my clothes and out goes my life savings. Forty-five minutes to get more shit done.


Well, I don’t know if anyone has realized this, but forty-five minutes is actually enough time to get things done, but since I’ve figured out that thirty minutes is not enough time, I’ve convinced myself that forty-five minutes isn’t either, so I waste that time. Ah, one more episode of “Homeland” can’t hurt, right? Time to grab the clothes from the dryer. If you haven’t realized, I am quite the control freak, so I absolutely cannot not fold my clothes the second they come out of the dryer. So, since I only have the mesh bag and no other real will to live, I make a conscious decision to fold my clothes right there in that dank laundry room, which, as previously stated, may be a medieval torture chamber. I fold and fold and fold until all eighty or so items are crisp and clean and now it’s time to transfer them back to my closet–a feat that takes no fewer than two trips to and from the laundry room each week.


But, my laundry is done now, my bank account is overdraft, and my mesh bag is as sad and lifeless as ever. Until next week, commercial washers and dryers.


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