Fresh From the Laundromat

So I just got back from the 10th St Laundromat. I brought my computer there because the laundromat has free Wi-fi but I thought it would be corny to blog while I was actually AT the laundromat as opposed to when I got home FROM the laundromat. It's so boring sitting around and waiting for the laundry. I try to pretend it's more convenient to schlep my laundry four and a half blocks to 10th and Ellsworth. Convenient only because it forces me to wash, dry and fold my wash all in one shot, as opposed to the luxury of having a machine, where one can laze about waiting hours before transferring wet clothes from one machine to the next, leaving the dry clothes to sit, telling oneself "I'll just fluff them for ten minutes before I'm ready to fold them." It's not convenient. That's why I only do laundry if I go to my parents or when I am completely out of underpants.

Okay, so that's the segue to my next topic. Underpants. Panties, if you must. My underwear ALWAYS ALWAYS falls loose from the pile and on to the floor. For some reason this embarrasses me. I liken this incident to dreaming of yourself naked in the high school cafeteria. Sorry, I do not feel comfortable with Mexican strangers eyeing up my panties. I just don't. One time, we went on half off day, and Max and I opted to share a washer. I was completely absorbed for the 24 minute wash cycle..."How am I going to transfer our laundry from the washer to the dryer without Max seeing my thongs?" Well, we've lived together for two and a half years now. He's definitely seen my undies. But it makes me uncomfortable.

So do the last four minutes of the cycle. Should I go sit down and pick up my magazine again? I always wonder that. It never seems worth it. Plus, sometimes you need to stake your claim on the dryer. Tonight it wasn't very crowded. I waited it out. Same goes for the the dryer to stop. I look forward to smelling my clean clothes and folding them with care, sorting them into piles, put neatly back into the basket. (There aren't many things I do neatly, mind you.)

So I'm waiting for my clothes to dry and there's this drunk old man loading a washer. He's talking to himself. I really want to avoid him at all costs, but I'm also curious. His quarters keep falling on to the floor. He's mumbling about it, so I say to him "You have to really push them in." He does. It works. I notice he has two large bottles atop the washer. It appears they contain aloe. The bottles say "aloe" on them and they're green. He tells me they're filled with soap and bleach. He's so greasy and the clothes he's wearing are dirty. He's washing colors and whites together, like me, except I don't do it with hot water and I don't use bleach- ever. I'm scared I'll use too much. He tells me he adds the entire bottle of soap, then the bleach. "That's a lot of soap!" I exclaim. It IS a lot of soap. It's too much soap. He asks me why the water is filling up. "You already put your money in" I tell him. The machine stops taking his soap. It's too much! He turns to me and laughs. "Most people think I use too much bleach!" Suddenly getting drunk before the laundromat seems like a good idea to me. "It is too much bleach," is how I responded. Sometimes when I am frank with strangers it startles me. It's like I am hearing my thought outloud, before my brain has processed it and before I decide if it's okay to actually say. But it was okay to say because I don't really think he cared either way. I watched him try to repeatedly pour more soap and bleach in the machine. I smelled my clean clothes and folded them carefully and walked home.