Lessons in Laundry

On rare occasions my mind will give birth to fairly intelligent thoughts. Today I hatched a scheme to take care of my necessary tasks early, in order to have the rest of the day for casual paced frolicking. This pretty much goes against my natural modus operandi as I am a born procrastinator. Maybe someday scientists will be able to identify exactly which defunct gene causes this aberition of my personality, but until then I have a good excuse to not do anything about it. So, I mentally went over my aganda of things that I had put off until the last moment. Number one on my to do list was to lead a coup d’ etat and take over as Supreme Ruler/Head Maraca Player in the coastal town of Chatitilia, Mexico. I think that I would make a great dictator, throwing lots of parties, but with gas prices being so high I decided to put that project on the back burner for now. Did I mention that I am into procrastination?

Moving on to the second item on the list I found the most pressing task needing to be done was laundry. Not my favorite chore, but a somewhat digestible one. Actually, the timing just might prove to be a blessing. Being that it was the day before a holiday, I figured that most people would be battling for a coveted lakeside camping spot, or swarming the local grocery store for those forgotten backyard cookout items. In theory I should be able to just breeze into the laundromat, have my pick of machines, and be done in time to catch the early matinee at the cinema, which of course was number three on the list.

I usually go to the laundromat in the late afternoon, at the last minute(surprise, surprise) so I didn’t recognize the laundry attendant this morning. I guessed her age to be in the early fifties and I knew immediately that she took her job seriously. I knew because she was on me like an attorney coming upon a car accident. She met me at the door and her eyes instantly scanned the items in my basket. She launched into her ‘welcome to our establishment’ oration and started running through the ins and outs of laundry survival. When she paused for a breath I informed her that I was a veteran of many washing skirmishes and that I knew how to navigate the laundry labyrinth. She ignored this and hovered over me as she barked out instructions on how to seperate clothes properly.

Now my theory on laundry is pretty basic. Cram the machine until the door barely shuts, add a little soap and fabric softener, press ‘start’, then head for the vending machine for a well deserved refreshment. This lady would have none of that. Looming in front of me like a Catholic school Mother Superior, I was educated on proper color coordinated laundry placement. Once the machines suited her strict guidelines, she inspected my choice of detergents. You might guess that I am not inclined to buying the most expensive detergents on the shelf. I mean hey, as long as it makes a few bubbles and most of it dilutes by the end of the wash, then I am content. The Laundry Mistress is not so indiscriminate. She unloaded a barrage of horror stories on how these cheaper detergents ruin not only fabrics, but the washing machines also. The venom in her voice burned hot as she hissed the names of several name-brand washer assasins. ‘Ummm, yeah, whatever, Attila, it’s just soap’ I thought to myself.

After the machines were merrily agitating my clothes the Laundry Mistress ambushed a tattooed, denim-vested motorcycle guy on the next isle. I braced for an ugly scene, but he was no match for her. In less than two minutes she had him stammering and reeling from her tirade of the Ten Commandments of Laundry. His spirit nearly broken, the Biker Dude retreated outside to the alley that ran along the side of the building. I was already hiding there.

He nervously lit his cigarette and mumbled, "Who was that lady?" I replied, "I don’t know, but I’m thinking about just leaving all of my stuff here and making a run for home!" Slowly, other males emerged into the alley, each one looking like a whipped puppy. Eventually, there were five of us and we became brothers-at-arms, a sort of impromptu support system. For a few precious moments we joked and laughed and enjoyed life. Then the Mistress flew around the corner and told us in threatening tones that the washing was done. Time for drying instructions.

It was gruelling. I can’t remember very much after that. I think that my mind went into that protective numbed state that trauma victims experience. But, by the grace of the Maytag Gods, my laundry was finally dried, folded and hung well enough to pass final inspection. I was granted my parole.

As I walked out the door, I looked back at the other guys. They were a sad looking lot and their eyes reflected a great admiration for me, the one who had made it to the outside. In an act of sympathy, I raised my clenched fist as a symbol of brotherhood for those I was leaving behind. They returned the gesture. As we felt the glorious bonding of the magical moment, the Laundry Mistress spotted a sweat stain under Biker Dudes’ sleeve. She was on him in a second! His pitiful sobbing and wailing was hair raising! I turned and ran.

If we ever meet, you and I, please overlook the ring-around-the collar, or the faded ketchup stain on my shirt. I think it’s going to take quite a bit of therapy before I feel comfortable in doing laundry again.

You know, I think that I’m going to change my Important task list. From now on, Numero Uno is going to be…PROCRASTINATION!!!

Take care.