No, I'm Not Drunk

Laundry Palace

The moment I pushed through the heavy door, I was bombarded by a glorious bouquet of cleanliness.

The aroma of soap, bleach, and floral-scented fabric softener sheets satiated the small space, in direct opposition to my Camry in its current state: a mass of dirty wool socks, children's underwear attached to inside-out pants, and piles of unwashed pajamas overflowing the baskets where I'd stuffed them. I looked around, having never been to an actual laundromat in all my 39 years. Hesitantly, I approached the quarter machine, flattened out my 20 dollar bill, and gently nudged it into the validator at the top. The contraption grabbed it forcibly, spilling quarters, fast and loud, into the metal tray. At once I felt like I had won the jackpot at the Crazy Diamonds slot machine in Atlantic City.

Quite the crowd had gathered in the late morning on a Monday. Don't these people have jobs to go to? I thought, before realizing that I could ask the very same thing about myself. People bustled around, focused on retrieving their garments from the washing machines and moving them to the industrial-sized dryers along the back wall. Most of the patrons spoke loudly over the roar of the apparatuses, gossiping and gabbing jovially to others who they seemed to have developed close ties with. Years of keeping a strict cleaning regimen had cultivated relationships between many of those who were there, and I felt like an intruder to their laundry gathering.

I wheeled the blue cart out the front door of the building to my car and grabbed one of the exploding laundry baskets from the back seat, trying- in vain- not to balk at the odor from my filthy wares. Struggling to keep stray articles of clothing from dropping all over the damp parking lot, I used both of my hands (and most of my strength) to navigate the cart up the ramp and back through the doors of the Laundry Palace.

Feeling much like the jester in this kingdom, I awkwardly wheeled around, looking for a few empty washers next to each other.

Spying three in the corner, I clumsily shoved two weeks full of my son's dirty clothes into the barrel of the first machine. Thinking better of it- and remembering how my washing machine broke in the first place- I took some out, as not to overload the washer. After going back-and-forth from the laundromat to the car thousands of times (or so it seemed), stepping on the stool to add detergent, and putting in innumerable coins, my items were all spinning in sweet synchronicity. I allowed myself the pleasure of a daydream about clean tee shirts folded neatly in drawers, when it occurred to me that I would be the one who had to fold this stuff too, but that was something that Future Me would have to deal with.

There was approximately half an hour before I had to switch the stuff to the dryer, so I took the opportunity to break out my laptop and get some writing done. I had an article due for the local news magazine about "day-cation" family spots in the area, but no internet access. Staring at the blank page I had just opened up, I blinked a few times, I Dream of Jeannie style, to no apparent avail. I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping that some words would ooze out of my brain, but I couldn't even think of a decent title.

Obviously this called for a well-deserved break. I plodded over to the vending machine, put in my two bucks, and a moment later was the proud recipient of a slightly jostled Dr. Pepper, which proceeded to fizz over the top of my hand when I opened it. The group of women behind me snickered, so I turned around, rather ungracefully, causing more of the sticky soda to splash out, this time down the front of my sweatshirt. Looking up, semi-embarrassed, semi-used-to-it, I muttered, "Well, I guess I'm in the right place to spill on my clothes," to which the group politely laughed at my pitiful joke, then went about their business of folding and chatting. I had never felt more like the new kid in the high school cafeteria.

I returned to my seat, wet bottle of soda in hand, and took a look at the computer screen. Yup, the page was still empty.

I wrote my name at the top.

I wrote the date underneath.

I went back and erased the date, realizing that this wasn't a term paper for 11th grade English.

After so much progress, I felt like another break was in order, so once again I stood and glanced around at the numerous individuals in the room, all of whom were socializing except me. Was I unintentionally making a sour face? It was definitely possible considering my aversion to coming here in the first place.

But didn't they all understand? Much like Scrooge I'd had a change of heart! I wanted to yell it from the rooftops: "I love for the laundromat!" I plastered on my friendliest smile, grabbed the keys that hung on the wall by the main desk, and walked over to the restroom, a newfound bounciness to my gait. The mirror revealed- to my horror- not the happy grin of a sane woman, but that of a crazed evil clown. Calm down! Relax! Breath deeply! I scolded myself. Splashing some cold water on my blotchy cheeks, hoping to wash away at least SOME of my hysterical-lunatic-appearance, I went back to the corner and sat back down, ready to write.

Before starting though, I peeked up at the washing machines I had been using. My clothes were ready to be moved, so I left my work (yet again) and shoved the sopping wet garments into my laundry baskets, then dragged them over to the dryers. I would have another 20 minutes or so to really get moving on this article.

So I couldn't come up with a title? That's fine. I just wrote "title" in bold letters, as a place holder. Now to begin. Again nothing really came to me, so I simply wrote the words, "Introductory sentence." I felt like I was really making some headway at this point, when a tugging at my pants drew me out of my pseudo-comatose writing state. I looked over to my left and down a bit to spy a toddler of no more than 18 months trying to grab my sweats. I smiled. "Why hello there," I gushed, as though this were my first run-in with a baby. "What are you doing?"

"Sorry, sorry," his dad whisked him away within seconds, as though I was some kind of creepy predator. Maybe he'd seen my less-than-charming smile before.

"No, it's no problem, rea—" It was too late though, Dad and son had already gone to join their group.

The next several moments were spent looking out the window and thinking about absolutely nothing (a skill that I have become a professional at). I looked at the screen and saw the beautiful piece that I'd written: My name at the top, followed by the word "title," then the words "introductory sentence" below that. I guess the article needed some work before I submitted it.

Officially giving up, I began gathering up my things. Over at the dryers, I found that my clothes were still a bit damp, but decided to be on my way anyhow; I'd had enough. Piling all three baskets on top of the blue cart and balancing my computer and bag like a cherry on this laundry sundae (because I was determined not to make more than one trip), I struggled to get to the front of the laundromat without dropping everything. Taking pity on me, an older gentleman opened up the door, so I could scoot out. "Great job today, Mama. See you next week?" he croaked.

"Sure will!" I replied enthusiastically, exiting the Laundry Palace, the feeling of being accepted like jeweled crown being placed on my head.