No, I will NOT do my own laundry...

Last week I discovered Fluff and Fold laundry services. I can see my mom shaking her head in disappointment now. This could turn out to be a major defining moment in my life as it is quite possible (see also: probable) that I will never do my own laundry again. Ever. And don’t kid yourself – it’s not like I have done much of it to date anyway. I’m still psychologically stunned by the fact that I dumped six loads of laundry into the hands of an innocent, unexpecting fluff n’ folder to return two short hours later post-bronzing session at the beach to swipe my overly-used debit card for just over $28 in exchange for several neatly stacked, saran-wrapped piles of my clothing.

Seriously though, you should have seen how it was all folded. It would have taken me 18 hours minimum to fold one t-shirt like that and even then there’d only be a 50/50 chance that I turned it right side out first. I was afraid to break the seal on the plastic wrapping for fear of losing the immaculate shape and organization of it all. Pants all together, t-shirts, shorts, tank tops…all of it bunched in perfect little groups. And clean! I don’t remember the last time I had clean laundry that was folded…or folded laundry that was clean. It did take me a few minutes to find my “delicates” though, which were all modestly hidden in the middle of the tank top pile. The only thing they didn’t do was color-code everything, which is probably best seeing how I have spent a good percentage of my life making fun of my sister for having a color-coded closet. Now that I think about it…I was most likely just jealous that her clothes somehow made their way onto hangers at all. And she would always know if I had "borrowed" something because I had the audacity to return (dirty, duh) black tops to the middle of the white section, undoubtedly making her eyes bleed. Freak. (Just kidding Linds…kinda.)

I’m officially rebelling against the idea of domesticity. I can’t do it. Or won’t. Or don’t want to…or whatever. Please note that I still have not put said laundry away and that, just as expected, the piles erupted immediately upon breaking the seal. My room is like the Natural Museum of Thrifty Shit. It’s a massive collection of strewn crap in its natural state of un-elegance…in my mind, the way it belongs. I wouldn’t be able to find anything if I were organized, I’m sure of it. And I have tried turning over a new leaf, believe you me…I have spent as much money on unused laundry baskets as I have on the empty journals I mentioned in my first post. It’s embarrassing.

I think it’s important to point out that I haven’t had the luxury of laundry machines in my home since college, and even then I managed to turn my living space into a piercing cry for help. I did have a laundry…thing…while playing volleyball in Greece a couple years ago, though I’m not sure I ever knew how to use it correctly. There were like 15 different numbered slots for soap, softener, champagne…things of that sort, and I generally just picked at random which to use. There was a plastic tube connected to the side of the machine that you were supposed to place in the toilet – conveniently located next to the washer – to drain. But my machine, as fate would have it, used to start shaking so violently at times that the tube would displace itself and drain all over the bathroom and hallway…if it drained at all. Sometimes I would have sopping wet clothes hanging outside to dry in the dusty Athenian air for days and despite my admirable intentions using fabric softener (I think), my clothes would…harden…still stained and often come out in totally different colors altogether. There is nothing quite like wearing cardboard spandex. Nothing.

Me and laundry go together like me and cooking…a promised future tale that involves me, wine and very little cooking. As far my darks and whites go, for now I think it best that I take full advantage of my newfound friendly laundry service and save my quarters and sanity for more realistic investments…like gumball machines.