*This got cut off before. Fixing now.
When the laundry bags appeared in the living room of 21E, I knew I was in for it. My roommate (AKA Crazy Girl) was horrible about laundry. First she’d spend hours bitching about how it’s too heavy to get down to the basement (despite the carts and elevators available). Finally she’d decide to send it out (despite the expense and fact that she hadn’t made a dime all year). Then she’d complain about how the fluff and folds, which pick up and deliver, don’t do her laundry the way she likes it. “It’s just never as soft and nice” as she writes out explicit instructions and attaches it to each bag.
I have done the drop off and pick up later thing. It’s nice to just pick it up on my way home, but Crazy Girl was right. It’s never as nice as I do it myself. And laundry is something I can do myself, so my Midwest side makes it hard to justify paying someone to do it for me at inferior quality.
Laundry is the chore I take the most pride in. I fold my towels perfectly, thanks to my training at Bed, Bath and Beyond. My socks are folded together just the way I like. I go home and make my bed with the sheets tight and crisp, just waiting to welcome me for a night’s sleep. All my clothes are clean and ready to be chosen the next morning.
Lately, I’ve been coming home while my clothes are in the dryer (the laundromat is across the street. I can see it out my window), and cleaning my apartment as if to create a welcoming place for fresh, clean clothes. I shake out the rug, sweep the floor, put my dishes away and open the windows to let some spring air in.
Then I get to sit back with a book and a chai latte and appreciate a job well done.
I’m a journalist, content strategist, doting auntie, amateur bobsledder, fitness enthusiast, and wannabe health nut (who loves chocolate and pizza too much to fully commit). I don't want you to think my life is perfect. It's not.