Sunday December 17

Death, Taxes and Laundry

My parents' home is a warm escape from the frigid isolation of apartment living. Of all the perks of being home for the holidays, none are as sweet as having complete, unadultered access to a free washer and dryer. It's not that I have a problem with paying to do my laundry, it's that the communal laundry room turns me into a bitter, vengeful person.

Here's the thing - I'm forgetful. Half the time I do laundry, I forget to check on it for hours. If I do this at home, I am likely to find that my mother has already taken my clothes out, lovingly ironed and folded them. If I do this in California, I am likely to return to a wet pile of clothes strewn atop one of the vacant machines. This discovery always infuriates me. What is wrong with our country, I wonder, when we don't have the time to wait for a free washer, or the courtesy to move our neighbor's clothes into the dryer for them. One evening, I must confess, my anger led to a regretful incident of "laundry rage". Noticing that my adversary's clothes were still in the dryer, I casually opened the door on my way out to stop it from running. That evening they too got to know what it feels like to have a stranger trespass on their socks. I felt like a real jerk afterwards.

Since that incident, there have been many times where I'm on the other end and somebody else's laundry loiters all afternoon while I wait. I find myself reaching for the machine to move their stuff, but I just can't do it. The voice in my head says, "What's the rush? Let them take their time." I don't want to be the ugly American who is always trampling people in the neverending rat race.

Anyway, I'd better wrap this up, my laundry is ready.