Barring any explosive aberration in my bodily functions, today is the last day that I’ll haul dirty laundry on my back to the laundromat. Next weekend, a washer and dryer will be at my disposal in my private residence, a decadent luxury after 10 years of laundering in a communal space.
I will stop squirreling quarters. I won’t coordinate laundry day with the weather forecast. I won’t navigate sacks of dirty laundry down narrow sidewalks and be stared at by immigrants, shocked to see a white American engaging in menial chores.
The voyeur in me will miss the laundromat. I like observing other people’s laundry habits. I love the bachelors who empty garbage bags into the washer – socks with sweaters, boxers with permanent press. I love the women who scrutinize every label and dutifully add fabric softener to everything. I love the old pros who can fold a bedsheet by themselves in mid-air.
But humans adapt to convenience splendidly, and I will not miss sniffing my clothes and shoving my underwear into a bag amid all the fascinating launderers.
