My washing machine has 35 ways to say, “Fuck you.”
It had been working intermittently. That is to say, I’d been tricking it into working.
“Beep, beep!” you say, evil, teasing washing machine? How about THIS setting? Rinse and spin, sucker!
For about a month, I’d been washing the essentials only, managing to complete a load every other day or so. I’d been procrastinating getting it repaired, because, you know, money.
But the situation had been getting bad.
I was out of yoga pants.
I’d resorted to wearing the lacy, date-night underwear.
It had gotten so bad, I would have to start wearing…the…thongs.
Since the situation had clearly become untenable, I decided to go to a laundromat. Naturally, I checked out the reviews online and found one in my old neighborhood near the optometrist’s office where my glasses were waiting. Oh, hooray, I could stack errands.
On the appointed day, I got dressed up in my fancy jeans and a pretty blouse I used to wear to work when I had an actual job, and loaded up an estimated 21 cubic feet of dirty laundry into the minivan.
I was feeling pretty MILFy.
Those jeans are the second-most expensive clothing item I own (the most expensive being my first wedding dress, which was pretty cheap as far as wedding dresses go). Those jeans are a class act. I bought them from a local boutique. They were hand-made in America by fairly paid workers. And they have a very generous ‘vanity sizing’ policy that makes me feel all young and fit whenever I look at the number.
Nobody needed to know I was using a rubber band to extend the waistband a bit. Shh! It’s a secret.
I must have been dripping with sex appeal, because a guy in coveralls asked me if there were any more laundry carts when he noticed the expert way I rolled a cart to my minivan to unload the laundry.
And then there was the 20-something, white t-shirt clad hipster who practically whispered, “Bless you,” when I sneezed. Moments later, when he sneezed, I didn’t return the blessing. I didn’t want to seem too easy.
You know what they say about sneezes…
I was getting hot, so I casually twisted my hair into a tousled, suggestive bun and took a seat in front of the washing machines while I flipped through Vanity Fair and Wired, because I’m all about high society. And tech.
I was there for a long time. Long enough that I had to use the restroom.
When I used the facilities, I discovered my period had started because of course, and when I looked in the mirror, I realized my hair was more messy than tousled, and noted that I really should have put on some eye make-up to hide the dark circles, but maybe I just looked like I was up all night partying and am so confident I can totally do laundry without wearing full make-up.
Sexy means having nothing to prove!
So, I went to the convenience store next door to buy the necessary supplies and see if I could cash in my free Kevita coupons. Alas, they had no Kevita, but they did have some fancy $5 kombucha–the good kind, with the alcohol warning–so I splurged.
Hipster guy had finished his little load of laundry, but coveralls guy sought my advice on where to insert the quarters for the dryer, and there was a new hipster guy. This one had on nerdy glasses. Oh!
I was pretty sure we made eye contact.
Why didn’t I have these laundromat interactions in my younger days? I hadn’t been to a laundromat in about a decade. Has the scene changed? Or was it me? I pondered as I folded laundry for over two hours.
Finally, finally, I loaded up two wheelie-carts with four laundry baskets, and filled another big basket of still-slightly-damp clothes I’d realized I could finish drying at home, rather than pumping more quarters into the machine, and was contemplating whether it would be safe to leave the basket in the laundromat while I rolled the wheelie-carts to the minivan when nerdy-glasses-guy offered to help me.
He said all that laundry looked a bit precarious.
Oh, yes, I just knew I was MILFy!
As he rolled out wheelie-cart #2, a basket started to fall and he reached out to steady it. He stopped as if his hand would burn on contact. “You probably don’t want me to touch your..undergarments,” he mumbled sheepishly.
His eyes filled with gratitude as I prevented the basket from hitting the pavement. It would have been a much hotter situation if the undergarment in question hadn’t been a once-white, threadbare, nursing sports bra.
“Thanks, I’ve got it from here,” I reassured my knight.
Perhaps sensing the danger of sending me to the laundromat, my husband encouraged me to get the washing machine repaired shortly thereafter, but I might just go back there for the thrill of it.