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.
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