“What's this I hear about you doing laundry with my sister?”

It’s warm and stuffy, that loud whirl and bang rings in my ears. I can’t leave to go eat or sit in my apartment because it’s already 10 p.m. and the night watchman will impartially lock the door for the night, sealing all my clothes with in the entombed laundry room. That happened last year, I forgot they locked up and went back to get my clothes, only to find that my clothes (particularly all of my underwear) would be spending the night, wet and mildewing, in the washing machine. So I sit, playing my Gameboy, throwing glances at the timer on the washer and thinking about…laundry.

I love clean clothes, new clothes are the best, but freshly washed clothes are a close second. Especially when they are still warm from the dryer when you put them on on a cold winter’s morning. Doing my laundry has never been something noteworthy most of my life. As a child my mom fielded that responsibility, all the way up to her breaking point of trying to manage the linens of 5 children, a husband and herself. Realizing that she could only manage to be either a well rounded mother or a full-time Laundromat service. Opting for the former, the responsibility of laundering my clothes fell on to my own shoulders. It wasn’t really that bad. I would accumulate dirty clothes either in my laundry bag or on the floor of Colin’s and my room. Each child was assigned a day of the week that was “your laundry day.” If you forgot or tried to bring it up later, a lecture about how it was no longer your day would usually result, but would end up meaning that you had to wait until whoever’s day it was completed there washings. But when you want your favorite Beastie Boys T-shirt or your lucky camo boxers clean now and Todd either isn’t around or is unwilling to cycle his laundry from washer to dryer and from dryer to a basket to be folded (haha yeah right), you are forced to cycle his laundry yourself. I’d like to think that this was done with in a charitable, Christian manner, but there was usually much wailing and gnashing of teeth. I’m sorry but I don’t like to touch the wet, soiled clothing of another person, particularly there un-mentionables. Even if I am related to them…especially if I’m related to them. Ewwww.

“A beautiful, successful, intelligent woman is in love with me and I throw it all away. Now I will spend the rest of my life living alone. I'll sit in my disgusting little apartment, watching basketball games, eating Chinese takeout, walking around with no underwear because I'm too lazy to do the laundry.”

College. Laundry became a struggle in college. All growing up it was just simply a matter of time, almost like a bodily function in terms of necessity and effort. But then I got to college and found that each time I wanted to wash my close I had to shell out money. Its like getting to the dorms and finding that I have to insert 50 cents each time I want to use the bathroom. And so I started to rationalize the necessity of doing laundry, because there was a trade off – clean clothes or cash. This dilemma was somewhat alleviated when I found that I could manipulate it so that the washing machines would accept my dining money, which was about as real to me as a stack of $100s from a Monopoly game. Further more the Laundromat was in the basement of the dormitory, so it was like home, only I had to swipe my card at the washing machine and still had to occasionally had to cycle along someone else’s laundry. Ewwww.

At the missionary Training Center, you still had to go to a Laundromat, but you had time assigned to that and it was free, you just swiped your ID card. And then while I was in Hong Kong, each apartment was supplied with a washing machine. Something was dirty or need to be washed. You throw it in the washing machine and wash it. And nobody has dryers over there. Instead there is a series of string and racks criss-crossing about the apartment, on which clothes are hung out to dry. I did have a dryer in two apartments. One of them was part of a nice discreet washer/dryer combo. Dirty clothes go in, clean dry clothes come out. The other was an obnoxiously loud lint factory we stole from the missionary apartment in Sha Tin. Wet clothes go in, they come out mostly dry, sometimes with lint on them, and no one can sleep when you run it. It was still something to be coveted by all.

Cassandra: You know, I haven't seen Garth in a while. What's he up to?

Wayne: Oh, Garth's doing his laundry.

Cassandra: Too bad he doesn't have a girlfriend to do HIS laundry.

Wayne: Oh yeah; thanks for doing my laundry. Hey Cassandra, how do you get my clothes so white and fresh-smelling?

Cassandra: It's an age-old Cantonese family method that very few people know about.

Wayne: Ahh... Wait a minute... Calgon? Ancient Chinese secret, huh???

But now that I’m back at college, I’m back paying to wash my clothes. And there seems to be some sort of laundry inflation conspiracy. The washing machines have gone from 50 cents to 75 and now to a dollar for each load. And the dryers were once only a quarter. But the trick is that one time through is never enough. It takes two to three. So when you go to the new laundromat at your new apartment you would expect the dryers costing 50 cents to be as effective as two cycles in the former dryers. No, regardless of the price per cycle, it seems to always take at least two. So I’m dropping 2-5 dollars for a trip to the laundry room. Not too bad as long as you only go every other week. So naturally, I wear every piece of clothing I have before I do laundry. “Hmmm, what do I have left that I know is not dirty…or at least doesn’t look dirty…or smell.” At home, you didn’t stress over how many loads you had. If you got a stain on a pair of pants, you went to the laundry room, sprayed on some Spray-N-Wash and threw it in the washer and had them clean by the evening. Now I put Spray-N-Wash on them, throw them in the basket and hope I run out of clothes before the stain sets. Now I am a clothing maximizer. I utilize every piece of clothing to the fullest extent of the law.

I guess I’m just rambling now. Longing for the days of casual laundry. No searching for change, no closing hours, no scrapping out 17 years of lint, no micromanaging of my clean clothes, and no scooping G-strings out of the dryer with a hanger. Just me, my dirty clothes, a washer, and whenever it’s convenient.

…wait whose boxers are these? Ewwww

“Did she say we were doing laundry? Because where I come from, it's called ‘doing the hibbidy-dibbidy.’”