: bribes cheerfully accepted :


Ordinarily, people spend their Sunday mornings doing one of two things: going to church or sleeping in. Me? I do laundry. Every Sunday morning, religiously, rain or shine, I crawl out of bed in the gray half-light of dawn and schlep off to the Fluff n’ Fold. A bulging laundry bag swinging from each shoulder.

Why do I do this?

Because at 5:30 on a Sunday morning, the place is deserted — there’s nary a soul in sight. All you’ll find afoot at that time of day is peace and quiet. Wait for a more civilized hour, say mid-morning, and oy! You’ll be oh-so-sorry. By then, you see, it’s no longer a laundromat; it’s bedlam. Pandemonium has broken out.

Laundry carts careen; people bump and shove; washers shriek in protest of unbalanced loads; feet slip and slide on dryer sheets; epithets get tossed like hand grenades. Okay, maybe a laundromat isn’t on the same level as a prison riot, but it’s not a garden party, either. It’s on a par with roller derby, minus the helmets. And the decorum. I believe I’d feel better with a helmet.

The hard part is finding the motivation to get up at daybreak. Avoiding the unpleasantness of the laundry experience should be its own reward, of course, but it’s not. No, I need more. I need to be bribed, even if I have to do it myself. That’s the kind of person I’ve become, the kind who can be bought. Cheaply, too; I’m embarrassed to tell you just how cheaply.

An Egg McMuffin will do. Or a caramel macchiato. A copy of the Sunday New York Times. Even a giant sweet tea. Dangle one of those babies and I’ll do whatever it takes. I don’t ask for much — not in the summertime, anyway. That’ll change in the cold, dark days of winter. By then, and under those grueling conditions, I won’t haul myself out of bed for anything less than a guaranteed winning Powerball ticket. No, sir. I won’t.

I should probably start hoarding clean underwear.

Copyright © 2013 Publikworks

6 responses to “: bribes cheerfully accepted :”

  1. FurthermoreAndSoForth Avatar

    Oh you’re a better woman than I. Laundry AND rising at the crack of dawn? Each alone sends a shiver down my spine; both at once is almost unthinkable. You’re a brave, brave soul, Lisa.


    1. Au contraire, my delicate flower. This is self-preservation at its most basic. The laundromat is misery; the laundromat crowded with angry, aggressive adults is agony. I’ll go to any extreme to avoid that last one. But thanks, I like being thought of as brave.


  2. I feel your pain. I’m fortunate enough to have a washer and dryer at home. I’d sleep in a bag on the side of a road if I could do it and still have my W&D by my side. When I win that Powerball, I’ll buy you a pair.


    1. Aww that’s sweet! This was a great story.


      1. Thanks, Meka. I appreciate it.


    2. Would you? I’ll do your laundry for the rest of your life — Free! Deal?


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