There are not many things that I hate more than doing laundry, which is why I drop it off and have some slender Asian man do it for me.
Every time the pile of clothes in the apartment approaches a size large enough to scare me in the middle of the night because the sock dangling from the jeans looks like a Strange Man’s hand about to strangle me, I undertake the task of bringing it to the laundromat.
While I don’t actually have to do anything other than bring the man my dirty crap, it is always more dramatic than I ever want it to be.
I understand that the two of us – the man washing, drying and folding my laundry and I – enter into a relationship that requires certain degrees of humility and respect.
Me, being the Bringer Of Smelly Objects, must at all times act with extreme modesty when presenting my items to the man.
I know that he knows that somewhere buried in that white sack is Something Unfortunate, and it is better for both of us if I keep my head low when I hand off my laundry, because there is certainly nothing to be proud of in that bag.
The man sees that I am going about my business in a humble way, so he displays the amount of respect I deserve for not caring that another man touches my boxer briefs more than I would like him to.
The dance goes like this:
I go into the laundromat, place the bag on the floor, and step back slowly – keeping my eyes to the ground in a manner that says, “Yes, these are mine, and I am sorry.”
He gives me a nod and a grunt that I think means “Your undershirts should be burned” and places the bag on the scale.
He calculates the cost and I give him the money. I let him keep the change out of fear that if I don’t, he’ll “accidentally” bleach my t-shirts. Again.
I turn and leave knowing that I must return several hours later to pick the clothes up.
This is how our relationship works.
There can be no detouring from this path, because I know that one mistake by me and suddenly my favorite Larry David t-shirt won’t be mine anymore.
It’ll be his.
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