Due to reasons far too mundane to elaborate upon on here, for the first time in my life, I was required to visit a launderette in town. I know this is a boring and unrewarding chore for millions all over the globe, but for me, it had all the awe and wonder of the new and unexplored. There is some kind of meditational experience that comes from watching one’s particulars rotating in a mesmerizing miasma of soapy water and colors, the whirl and metronomic wheel of life - presented in front of you like a Buddhist teaching. I found the experience very therapeutic and I left in a calmer more reflective, relaxed mood - the cleaning of one’s clothes and of one’s soul.
I was of course required to bring a copious supply of quarters, and I stood there like a bubblegum ball addict looking to procure a year’s supply; one after the other the coins were pushed in – I had never seen such fevered feeding since I took my grandmother to a casino for the first time, and placed her in front of the noises and lights of a slot machine with her week’s pension money.
I’m an intelligent guy and I know how to separate my laundry, so tell me how does one phantom item of clothing end up staring up at me from the desolate emptiness of the dirty washing basket – my OCD required me to check that basket at least three times. I can only be left feeling that this is some sort of cruel joke played on me by the laundry gods, but I bowed before the altar of the single sock and sacrificed a dust bunny to lint heaven before I went - and I still found an item I had left behind.
I am a great procrastinator - when the writing is going really well, the laundry piles up. Thus if you happen to see me in the launderette, please do not ask me how my latest book is coming along.