For Love of Laundry

Over the last couple of days I’ve come to one depressing conclusion about doing laundry; it’s a huge part of my life. I’ve gone through several “stages” of laundering in my life. The chair stage was the first. When I was 4 or 5 I officially became the family laundry boy. Doing my family’s laundry was supposed to help me “grow”, take on responsibility, even be more appreciative of everything mom and dad did for me. So I dragged a chair across the room, pulled my 4-foot frame up onto the chair, and hung everyone’s laundry. This phase continued (but without the chair) until I graduated from high school. What did I learn from that? Dryers, that make clothes drier faster rule (I’m a grammar nerd). I haven’t hung a shirt since the day I moved into my dorm.

The second phase of my laundry-life was the Laundromat phase. Sometimes I can be very OCD. After having heard stories about some of the sick things that go on inside dormitory laundry rooms (none of which I was involved in… that I choose to admit) I vowed never to do my laundry on campus. So, every Tuesday I would pack my laundry bag to the brim, grab a book, and head to the shadiest Laundromat in Boulder. This phase wasn’t as glorious as you would think it should be. For those of you who’ve seen the movie “40 Days and 40 Nights”- it is nothing like that. There are no Laundromat romances, no relationships started over folding each other’s dainties (who the hell wants to fold someone else’s clothes anyway). The only flirting you do is with the little old immigrant lady, who happens to be the owner, as you try and score a few free tokens so you can save 5 bucks (because everyone knows that in college money is for booze, not clean clothes). That having been said, I served my one-year sentence of Laundromat torture and happily parted ways with South Boulder Laundromat the day freshman year ended (I still drive by on weekends and reminisce about what we used to have).

Phase 3: Condominium laundry machines. This is the phase that until arriving here in Madrid I have been locked into for the last 2 years. It’s by far the simplest phase. You grab your quarters, your laundry, and your key. You put your money in, you put your laundry in, and then you go do something until it’s done… Sounds simple right? Not quite. Along the road I have encountered several road bumps, which I have so fondly referred to as “inconsiderate pricks”. These people are the ones who don’t realize that other people also live in the complex. They so caringly leave their laundry in the machines all day, thus completely taking away anyone else’s ability to wash their clothes. Although every inch of me wants to take their clothes, throw them in the dumpster, set them on fire and leave a note on the machine that says: “I think you need some new clothes. Better luck next time”, I refrain. I peacefully wait (checking the machine every 20 minutes) until they take care of their items. I really am OCD.

The final phase (the reason I decided to make a comment about laundry in general) is the comical phase that I find myself in right now here in Madrid. Two different things lead to my pain; first, they don’t believe in dryers over here. Second, Laundromats- while carrying a large fee for services- are few and far between. So, I have adopted the Spanish method (however painful it may be). As I stated in an earlier blog, I’m a giant among dwarves over here. The laundry machine that my host has in our apartment is clearly not made for someone of my size, but rather for a dollhouse or a Polly Pocket. The first time I did my laundry I suffered through 5 loads to wash a week’s worth of clothes all because I can literally only fit 5 of my flag-sized shirts in the thimble-sized machine. Just imagine me angrily struggling with this little machine to shove as much of my clothing in as possible. I wish that the machine had feelings that would get hurt by the insults that I continue to psychotically scream at it during the few moments of the week that we share. The machine isn’t the half of it. I’ve reverted back to my first phase of clothes hanging. If that wasn’t frustrating enough, apparently the air over here is “damp”. I have been staring at the clothes rack for the past 4 days, praying that something is going to come along and dry my clothes so that I can finally stop wearing the same pair of underwear I’ve had on for the last 4 days (I’ve worn them inside out, upside down, backwards, you name it) thank God that’s a joke… maybe. My roommate suggested that I wash my sheets and my towel. HA HA. I had to restrain myself from bringing up the fact that if I washed my sheets and towel I’d be sleeping on a bare mattress until March and drying myself with 55 paper towels after every shower. I think I’ll just have to be content with sleeping on my filthy sheets and drying with my moldy towel until June. Maybe they are more primitive over her than I thought.

Concluding, laundry (no matter how you do it) is never fun. For those of you who come visit me, don’t be surprised if I’ve gone granola and given up on laundry until I get back to the states. Hey, who doesn’t love walking around in stained t-shirts that wreak of stale smoke.

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