For the past fourteen months - since I moved into this apartment - one household chore has taken a seat as the most burdensome task on my list. It's a chore I've never hated, never minded, never been annoyed with. But now, it requires lifting, maneuvering, driving, waiting, then lifting, maneuvering, and driving again. What is it, you ask?
Laundry.
You see, like many others living in small first apartments, I do not have a washer or dryer. Instead, Pete and I have trusted the kindness of our parents and used either my mom and dad's washer or his mom and dad's washer almost once a week to do our laundry. Not only does this mean getting our laundry baskets downstairs and through the narrow porch doors, into the car, and over to someone else's home, but it also means waiting for the wash to be done - usually two or three loads - and then waiting through dryer cycles, all while 20 minutes from home and unable to complete other chores.
Last weekend - thinking that perhaps after a year, we might find another solution than the kindness of moms - we ventured for the first time to the local laundromat. I have a fear of looking dumb in public (who doesn't, I guess?) so I tried to pretend I totally knew what I was doing. I walked in boldly, head held high, and found a few washers together that weren't humming with someone else's clothes. The washers were the same ones we had in my college dorms, so it wasn't too hard to figure out. And each load cost only $2.00! A bargain, I thought. I had brought quarters, so that part was easy and after we put three loads in (three loads at once - who dreams of such luxury!?), I zipped down the street to Wawa for some sustenance: a blue slushy for Pete, Nantucket Nectar for me, and a stuffed soft pretzel to share. I felt pretty secure there on the bright blue plastic bench with Husby, waiting for my clothes to be cleaned.
The laundromat experience was excellent, not only for the ease (three loads at once, then tossing the contents of all three into a MASSIVE dryer) and the quality time with Husby, but also the people-watching opportunities. I had brought my crocheting and was working on a project while I sat on the bench along the wall. A woman sat down on the bench next to me, browsed a few magazines sitting there, then turned to me and asked what I was making. I told her, and she said she used to crochet blankets too. She had made two the same, a pattern with three dimensional rosettes on each square. The first, she said, she made ignorantly out of wool, and it got destroyed in the washing machine. Later, she made one out of more suitable yarn and she says she still has it. That day, she seemed to be washing mostly mu-muus, slips, and other things made of silky material. She must have pushed the button for a quick cycle, because she was in and out of there in no time at all. In the meantime, I had barely noticed another woman trotting back and forth between the two change machines, evidently trying her single five-dollar bill in each one, flattening it out against her leg and trying again, with no success. Finally, she came over to me and asked if I had change for a five, which I did. It's nice to help a stranger. Later, as I was pulling my clothes out of the dryer, hurriedly folding each item in half just to keep them unwrinkled until I got them home, a girl about my age in leggings and a white t-shirt was meticulously folding a bunch of colorful toddler clothes. Small square piles of shirts and pants, and little stacks of socks covered the folding table in front of her. Perhaps an afternoon at the laundromat was the break she needed from the little ones.
This week at the laundromat most of the people I saw brought in their laundry in large plastic trash bags. Two little sisters were pushing the wheeled laundry carts in races from one side of the room to the other. A few youngish men seemed surprised at the capacity of the dryers and I felt proud for having learned this already. And a middle aged man was doing a load by himself. It was a funny group of us there, all sitting, waiting quietly (the laundromat does not play the radio, I was surprised to discover), spending a Sunday afternoon together
The laundromat creates a community of people in need. We may get our clothes at Goodwill or at J. Crew, but we all need them washed. We may use Tide or Wisk, carefully apply stainlifter to each garment or toss everything in the washer in a tangled mass, pay with quarters we've saved all week or feed a ten into the change machine and catch a noisy pile of coins in our hand. It doesn't matter. It's a leveling instrument, a humbling place where we admit that our lives - or at least our cheap apartments - are lacking something. At the laundromat, we're sharing space for an hour or so, then going home with something warm and good-smelling. It reminds us that in all things - not only our laundering needs - we are not so very different from each other as we might think.
