The laundry room on Sundays is like a battleground. It’s for this reason that I usually do my laundry at really odd hours, like at midnight on a Tuesday or 5:00 on a Friday. I’m not confrontational. In parking lots I usually let the other guy have the spot. (Or I snag it and then avoid eye contact like a wuss.)
But today, things got dire. Washing my dirty laundry became not so much a desire as a necessity. I was OUT. I was out of clothes to wear. I wore pajamas to the laundry room, and not even my first-choice, pleasantly casual pajamas, but like the ratty, fourth-string, we’re-down-by-nine-touchdowns-and-we’re-scraping-the-bottom-of-the-barrel-here pajamas that never get any playtime. I think this analogy is getting away from me. Anyway. This occurred to me today because all the washing machines were in use, and I had to stake out a girl who was hovering around hers waiting for the cycle to finish, and then I had to pounce to keep this group of people who had just walked in away from what was rightfully mine, and we had a silent duel (at least I consider our brief eye contact a duel) and then I got it and threw all my clothes inside and walked out of there to the beat of that “Sweet Victory” song from Spongebob at the Bubble Bowl.
At least I like to think that’s how it happened.
EDIT: There’s an update on the laundry story. When I went back down there I was forced to watch as some girl dumped my laundry on the floor before the dryer had finished. I was too far away yet to do anything but watch and vaguely recognize the girl who was doing it and think to myself, “Andrea, you ASSHOLE.” Then I passive-aggressively folded my stuff while she loaded her clothes into the dryer. It is a BATTLEFIELD, people.