Laundry Day

Good morning, Echo Chamber. Any plans for the weekend?

I plan to do laundry, which is always a real treat. There's no place quite like a public laundromat. It smells clean but looks dirty. That always throws me off... can't quite get my bearings; focus my chi. I hope I never encounter a ruthless Chinese gang leader on a campaign of martial arts carnage there. The scent of fabric softener and the sight of a fat dude in dirty sweatpants disorients me ever so slightly, leaving me susceptible to the praying mantis style.

Great. Now my nemeses (that's plural for nemesis!) will know I'm vulnerable! Why did I start this blog?

Right. Laundry. Something changes inside of me watching garments tumble around the dryer window; seeing the red light change from indicating the "Final rinse" stage of the wash cycle to the "Final Spin" phase. Maybe it's the mild sense of demasculinization I get when I fold my girlfriend's clothes... just Ben and I. It's not like I have a huge problem with that, but I'd much prefer to don a flower-and-lace apron in the privacy of my own home. Did I mention I wear a flowery apron when I wash clothes? I might as well anyway. That's all I'm sayin'. I wish Ben and I could always do manly things together. Of course, we usually have a pretty good time at the laundromat, singing songs and making friends. See, the laundromat environment lends itself to easy, casual conversation with other patrons. There's a sort of unspoken bond that forms between strangers who've seen each other's undies. "So... those are your skivvies, huh? Yup-ah. These are mine."

The whole "seeing another person's undies" thing is awkward when it's you and the fat, dirty-sweatpants guy, which is to be expected. It's far more awkward (surprisingly) when you're folding undies with that ineluctable knock-out dame doing laundry at the same time. I always see a hot girl at the launderette. Never fails.

There are two advantages a man has in this magical forest of industrial sized appliances when it comes to the fairer sex. First, a cute girl doing laundry on a Saturday morning is usually still pajama clad, and that promotes public bralessness (which should be a real word and a serious cause). Secondly, the laundromat throws everyone off balance, not just highly trained vigilante martial arts killing machines with a strong moral fiber and a good heart who were framed by their ex-partner and current unscrupulous chief of police. No. We're all vulnerable there (hence pj's sans bra), and cute girls even like nerdy guys when they're feeling vulnerable. Especially ones who aren't afraid of doing a little laundry with their adorable son. I'm not sayin' that I'd ever be led astray by some laundromat temptress, some sultry, sensual morning mistress, suggestively folding frilly underthings while blatantly eye-fucking me... but it is nice to be noticed... (nicer still when it's one of those LA women that Jim Morrison was singn' about).

The thing I hate about laundry though is that you have to pay for it. Man! Who is the masochist who thought of that? Prolly kin to the jerk that invented work (who was hanged from a cigarette tree on the Big Rock Candy Mountain). "Hmm... How can we make a horrible, monotonous chore even more miserable? Wait... I got it! What if we rigged it so that the people actually had to pay for the 'privilege' of doing their own laundry?" Of course I understand why washing machines cost money, and how that came to be, but it still chaps my ass. If I'm coming out of pocket to do chores, I'd rather be paying someone to do the actual work for me. Ten bucks oughtta buy a little piece of mind on an easy weekend, right?

Another bone of contention - folding clothes. The process involves so many steps that are inherently irritating to me. Finding matching socks, for instance. I hate to discover how many single socks (usually my favorites) are missing their counterparts. I hate the feeling of apprehension I get when I find a matching pair, but can't think of any other way to keep them together other than wrapping the elastic band of one around the top of the other, thereby inevitably ruining the pair, as it's been well documented that if this technique is used even one time too often, it'll turn the once harmonious pair into the dreaded one-stays-up-and-the-other-falls-down pair of feuding foot covers... ahhhh! It's happening... and I haven't even gotten to complain about t-shirts or dress pants...! Must... break... free....

*phew*

So I guess it's safe to say that the jury's still out regarding Saturday morning trips to the laundromat. It does have it's perks (pun intended)... shallow and lascivious as they may be, but as you can plainly see, there are times when the simple act of folding clothes can drive me to the brink of madness. I'm inclined to chalk one up for Laundry under the "Hate" column, but as long as there are beautiful women who also have to do their own laundry, there lies a reasonable doubt.

Boobs make everything better.

Damn right.