In Which I Go To The Laundromat

Until we moved into our current apartment in April, The Boss and I lived lived in a very small town. No traffic lights or grocery stores, and only one gas station. There is a stretch of sidewalk on Main street, all 800 feet of it. It was a nice quiet town and we loved it there, despite nothing being open past 8:30pm.

We now live in the next town over. Its a little bigger, and people actually recognize the town name instead of saying "Where's that?" when they ask you where you live. For the record, there are two traffic lights, three grocery stores, and four gas stations, and just about everything is open until at least 9:00pm. We even have a movie theater, but as far as I can tell, there is only one landromat.

I don't like laundromats. They can be a scary place. We used to live in the city, and walking into the laundromats there made you feel like a female college freshman walking into a frat house. As in, you stood a fair chance of getting raped or hepatitis within the first five minutes of being there. Sadly, there are no laundry facilities in the apartment building we live in, so once a week I make the trip to the laundromat in town.

The building is relatively new and clean, and its just a few blocks down from where we live. The people that work there seem nice enough, if just a little bit eccentric. But, if I had to spend eight hours a day watching clothes spin around in metal drums, I suppose my mind would teeter on the edge of insanity, too. Everything is well lit, and I don't feel scared for my wallet or my health upon arrival. I am a bit of a regular there now, always going on the same day, and using the same washers and dryers.

Being the only laundromat in town, the types of clientele varies greatly. After being a customer there for almost two months now, I'm pretty sure I've seen every type of customer possible. Generally speaking, the people that frequent the facility are nice, at least polite enough to smile back when I smile at them. There are always some sour grapes, like the mother with seven children, all of whom are running around and screaming. There is the guy who looks like he hasn't seen the inside of a shower or bathtub in 13 years, washing 29 pairs of ripped jeans and three pairs of socks. There is the old couple, sitting quietly in the back with their legs crossed reading different sections of the newspaper. Lastly, there is that one person sitting near the door that you catch staring at you, and every time you look at them they quickly look away. I'm in and out of there as quick as possible, generally within 1.5 hours. Twenty seven minutes to wash a load, thirty minutes to dry, and the rest of the time folding. I have it down to a science now.

There is this one woman who works there that I try my hardest to stay away from. She always seems a little strung out, with her wiry hair all disheveled and moving about as she gestures wildly while talking. Her eyes are always opened really wide, like she is in a permanent state of surprise. She has this peculiar method of marking the dryers in order of which lint traps she needs to empty, and will explain it to anyone who will listen. She walks around with her pant legs tucked into her socks, too. Which is strange for someone I've never seen on a bike.

Needless to say, I keep to myself whenever I'm there. Mostly because I'm not a highly social person when I'm alone. Also because I find it awkward to be holding a conversation with a relative stranger while I'm folding my underwear.