Monday, July 10, 2006


Laundry Mats? Laundrymats? Laundromats... Whatever you call them, there's always an unshakable feeling of getting mugged-- or worse yet-- coming out with empty pockets and damp clothes.
I'm afraid of Laundromats. I have been ever since I was forced to wait with my mother for our mixed color load to dry. I must have been 5 at the time, string beanish as ever, and there were two older men playing video games kindly provided by the laundromat while we all waited.

They were very violent. Kicking, jamming, swearing over the game of pinball. I was very nervous.

I don't think I'd been in a Laundromat since that one time, but I always knew they bothered me. And I always knew that those gamesters would still be there. Whacking on the side of the pinball machine while I delicately sorted quarters from nickels.

To the point, I will be moving to a place in Waltham, MA that has no on-site laundry facilities-- BUT has two delightful laundromats within walking distance. Okay. It's okay. This is what I imagine:
People, strange people, wanting to make conversation with strange YOU while you're sorting your lights from your darks [I don't, but I'm trying to get to know my audience]. People who would want to chat with you through the first spin cycle and beyond. This is when I say I have babies. Many babies in baby school-- you know, like pre-school, that need me... and then I slip out.

But what use is it? They'll still be there, still folding and fussing and chatting. I will just have to become one of them.

Or cut through to another dimension and find this laundry faciliy:


The clothes come out keeping you warm when it's cold, cold when it's warm, and sexy all the time. I won't tell you what laundromat it is, but it clearly exists.

1 comment:

Accidentally Disastrous said...