If You Feel, Like I Feel, Baby...

I am not good at doing laundry. This is not to say that I shrink things, or fry things, or mistreat my clothes. I just forget to do it until I'm in the too tight, too itchy, or too big underwear and wearing the socks that flow into the bottom of my shoe like water rolls down a hill. I meant to do a load of wash before things got out of control, but events this weekend kept me from the "laundry room" (read: a washer and a dryer for nearly forty people in my apartment) and this week is busy, so last night was the only time I had to dedicate to the arduous process of washing my clothes. I piled my clothes into my wheelie suitcase and trudged up the street to the laundromat.

I'd hoped that by waiting until Monday I would have avoided the weekend rush and I'd have my pick of the dryers and washers, but four of the twelve dryers were out of commission. Since there's no other laundromat nearby, I figured I'd have to suck it up and get to washing and wait around if I had to. I'd stopped at the gym before heading home, so it was late and I hadn't eaten dinner. I sat in the nearly-broken plastic lawnchair and waited for my wash to finish.

I called my Mom since I hadn't spoken to her in a while, and she caught me up on her work dramas and how her hip is doing. As I talked to her, a girl walked in and started her laundry. She was one of those women who dress really well in the hopes you don't notice she's short and squat. She had on a tan wool coat, black slacks, and diamond studs. She had the air of the rich girl who expects everything and everyone to fall at her feet, even though she's not attractive, nor has a particularly winning personality. That sounds cruel, but something about her just rubbed me the wrong way. I wrote it off as being really hungry, and kept talking to my Mom.

I use the semi-large load washers, so they took about forty-five minutes to complete the cycle. At about twenty minutes, I started scoping out the dryer situation to see which ones I could use. I usually divide my clothes into dark colors and lighter colors to keep the lint from being too obvious, but with the lack of functioning dryers and huge amount of very annoying people in the laundromat, it looked like I'd get only one.

The first load finished up. I threw my wet garments into the basket, shoving it forward at full force so the woman who looked like a Shape reader model wouldn't shove all her workout clothes into the dryer I'd had my eyes on. I tossed in my clothes and a dryer sheet and smugly loaded my quarters in.

My second load, however, still had five minutes to go. I hoped that someone would unload their stuff so I could keep my darks and lights from mixing, especially since the idea of lint-rolling my black velvet pants into wearable condition didn't strike me as much fun. I grabbed my clothes from the washer as soon as they were done, and headed for the functioning dryer that was empty. Unfortunately, Shape-model had made her claim on the bottom dryer, as a black track jacket that seemed to be identical to the one she was wearing was laying in the dryer like a murder victim.

"Son of a bitch," I muttered, feeling my crankypants come on. I opened the dryer with my lights in it, a flurry of socks and thong underwear raining onto the ratty-ass carpet, and tossed in the dark items. I picked up my clothes from the floor and closed the door. I threw in some more quarters, defeated. I went back to my lawn chair, keenly aware of the rumbling of my stomach. I considered running to Star Market and buying something to eat, but I didn't want to leave my suitcase unattended. So I sat, miserable, and read my book.

Then the annoying entitled girl came back, this time with her ugly boyfriend. Seriously. Ugly and annoying, the both of them. They stood in front of the dryers, and apparently the comingling of her jeans and his hoodie turned them on, because they kept schmoopily kissing and embracing in front of the dryers. They decided to get coffee. They came back. They sat on the folding table, she reading the JobFinder ads, him talking about his job. And I thought, why couldn't you have come and done this during the day, you unemployed, ugly bitch. My mood was not charitable.

Finally, ugly girl and ugly boy took their still-damp clothes out of the dryer, their pheremones getting the better of them, and they elected to go some and sate their base instincts. They left the JobFinder ad spread out like it was awaiting dog urine on the folding table, and I reassembled it, muttering "sloppy bastards." I don't like very many people when I'm hungry.

I collected my clothes, putting them back in my suitcase and wheeling them home. I preheated the oven and threw in some fish and ate a salad, and my mood improved greatly once my blood sugar was set to rights. And now none of my clothes stink, and I will smell like a clean sheet for the personal trainer I am meeting with today at the gym. I'm sure this can only be an adventure, since I generally get very nervous around the uber-fit types, and this girl is about 6'2 and weighs less than I do.