Contributed by XOKeegs
Summer is officially upon us - I can tell from the sweat stains. I thought I was done complaining for the year but something about the change in weather has sparked my desire. Amongst the array of thorny problems poking at
me presently, two stick out with the most aggression: the folks who use “adult” as a verb and the laundry cycle. The first I won't even address further due to the size of the vein it encourages to pop out of my forehead. I still have to show up to work today after all and would hate to lash out at someone undeserving.
The second, oh man the wrath it inspires. For context keep in mind that I, a grown man adulting through New York and doing the best I can to avoid the pitfalls of contemporary urban-dwelling, was told and sold on the fact that my apartment building contained a WORKING washer/dryer. The lie detector has since revealed that THAT was a lie. The laundry plague is different. The scenario I’m describing is in fact exponentially worsened by the humiliation of having to regularly acquire 10 dollars worth of United States official currency in 25 cent format just to afford the ransom ($2.50 per load IN MY HOME).
I’m writing this because I refuse to believe there is nothing I can do, that this is it. I’m drawing the line. In hopes of someone reading this with advice to offer, I must vent. And if your suggestion is the laundromat, go ahead and keep it. The last time I tried that route I took a walk and came back to find my clothes sitting in a nice, wet pile as the dryer that I paid for spun someone else's wardrobe. Intolerable.
Question: How is it possible for the laundry basket to fill so quickly?
I am not one of the top ten most hygienic people you’ll ever meet. Sometimes a pair of socks can be pulled off for two days, sometimes pants and tees can be reworn. WHO is wearing all these outfits? I do laundry as often as I can physically and financially manage and yet it seems as though with every complete load, the dirties respawn in the basket, awaiting another loop. I ragged on them in an earlier piece, but if this situation has anything to do with Ashton and the other whites' decision to not bathe regularly then I recant my earlier sentiments of ridicule. They were clearly on to something that I missed.
My great aunt Vava had a saying, “It’s not dirty if it doesn't get wet.” She truly was unbothered and her lack of concern about frequent baths brought into questioning her degree of sanity. Years later, I FEEL where she was coming from. As I stick my hands behind the couch for the third time this month I fear I’m nearing a breaking point. The aggression with which I’ve been closing the dryer door startled my neighbors, prompting them to tap on my door and inquire about my safety. I’ve begun to consider the lifestyle of a nudist but the conflicts are severe and plentiful. I miss being ten years old, waking up to get dressed in clothes that I would ensure came back to the home in the worst possible state. Never once having to consider the mechanics of the whole operation. Wash, dry, fold, hang, stack, stuff I mean gimme a break! Who has the time? To keep it real this alone is my current and central argument about not having kids. I don’t believe I can withstand any increased wash cycle frequency or load size.
Please send help.