a little dirty laundry.

It's the little things in life that make days so enjoyable. The sunset on Wednesday evening was simply spectacular. The sky was glowing and subtle and on fire all at the same time. The well dressed man at the counter today that was also friendly and engaging and conscious of the fact that I am a human too, even though I had roasted red pepper bisque soup on my forehead? That was a good little thing. The man that I almost hit yesterday in my car, who didn't flip me off and threaten to end my life because I carelessly rolled through a stop sign, but instead, kindly waved? That was a wonderful little moment that I was exceptionally thankful for. Yesterday morning when my boss (at the nearly thankless and deathly job which requires me to wake at an incredibly unearthly hour) said that I was doing so good because so many people were buying my treats and also, that I should give myself more credit...That was a dear little thing to hear. On Wednesday, after about sixty plunges and many moments of sad desperation, the plunger finally did its job in the toilet. This means that I took care of my own shit instead of having to drag someone else into the mess. That was a life giving little thing. 

It's also the simple things in life, however, that I have so much difficulty with. Soap? Purchasing it? So incredibly difficult. Toilet paper? I wait until I can't wait anymore. This summer in Korea, when I lived by myself and not with others that just kept it there, rolling, all of the time, my toilet-paper-buying-incompetence shone brightly. My one good friend there was hesitant to share his, knowing he would be enabling my childish and irresponsible behavior, seeing as though all I had to do was walk across the street, grab a roll or two, pay, and walk back home. Now that I do not have a washer and dryer in my house at my disposal, this makes it even more difficult for me to complete an already difficult task. Laundry. I have been wearing cute dresses each day with no real desire to look cute. Why? Because all of my jeans have coffee and cookie dough stuck to them. They have for a few weeks now. 

I must take control, I told myself. I must get clean and start wearing underwear again. TMI? Oh well. So I took the dirty pile of wrinkled body coverings with me to my parents house last Sunday. But then my mom did various inconsequential and silly things to annoy me, and I didn't like the idea of my laundry being in her washing machine, heavy and wet, tying me to staying there longer than I knew I would desire. So, I left my trunk of dirty clothes in the car, ate, watched LOST and left with the trunk-o-clothes, still very, very dirty. 

Problem still unsolved and messy and out of control, I decided the laundromat would be my best solution. They have many washers there, as that's the nature of a laundromat, and I also have fond memories of the baskets on wheels from my mustard-colored-washer-is-often-broken childhood. This won't be so bad, I told the butterflies that were starting to gather in my stomach. Relax. Stop flapping your delicate little wings! Parked in front of laundromat #1, I sat and looked and watched and waited, unable to exit my car and enter. Intimidated, as if I was in a foreign country, speaking a different language than the locals, unaware of unmentioned and under-the-cover customs, I was incapable of getting out of my car. What will they think of me? Will they know that I don't know what I am doing? How do I pay? Will I know where to put the coins? Do they take coins? Do you have to be a member? Is there a secret password? Do their washing machines take a special kind of detergent? I drove away. 

To laundromat #2. Scoping it out. Their windows were tinted. Damn-it. The man sitting outside on the bench was definitely intimidating, unaffected, with a cigarette carelessly hanging from his lips. He looked laundromat confident, like he could see right through me, could see my desperation. I winced. “Seriously”, I told myself. We are all just people with dirty laundry, right? I mustered the confidence, or will, or whatever, and stepped from my car to scope the situation out, and see what was happening on the other side of the tint. Awkward. Small space. People staring. No room to think or make mistakes or even, at this point, pretend like I knew what I was doing. Yikes. Out of the tint I go, to the open space and clearness of the sunshine, and yes, to the reality of filth and no clear and safe way to find a remedy.

Back to laundromat #1. Why? Perhaps because after leaving #2, since I had already spent a few minutes in the parking lot of #1, it seemed like it could be familiar. And I started to remind myself of the time that I purchased eye glasses in Korea, and how I walked passed the window multiple times, frightened of the language barrier and the foreign, unfamiliar. And how it came down to me making a choice, opening the swinging glass door on the corner, and going in. Yes! That’s it! I just need to open the door, walk in, clean the clothes, and then reflect on how fulfilling of an experience it will turn out to be. Then I could sit down to write about how much I love challenging experiences because of how they make me grow. Oh glory.

I unlocked my dented car doors, grabbed the cumbersome brown trunk from the passenger seat, and ventured in, clothed in shaky confidence. I sat it down next to a row of the white clothes-cleaning-appliances, and yes, they stared. The woman in the corner wearing red. The man behind me. The children. The could sense my intimidation and watched as I fumbled miserably through the steps. I went to a coin machine and attained four dollars worth of quarters, after losing one dollar in the wrong machine. I glided down the stairs with a quizzical look on my face, passed the woman that works there, and realized I couldn’t put quarters in the washer because the washer doesn’t take coins. It takes a plastic card with a strip that you have to add a balance to which, I learned from the exceptionally unhelpful laundromat monitor, has a minimum of ten dollars. 

I put all of my silver change in my pocket, picked up the trunk full of filth, and marched out.

Now, instead of sitting here writing about how it was an incredible growing experience in which I am grateful for, I am writing about how awfully unfulfilling it was, and how it made me lean toward the glass is half empty approach to humanity. Nearly a week later, my clothes are still dirty, except for the underwear that I washed in the sink, and the only thing that has been washed clean would be my fond childhood memories of laundromat.