5 a.m. Sunday morning and I'm doing laundry. Hey, when you're an insomniac and there's a 24-hour laundromat a block away, it's the best time to wash your clothes -- after the drunken college students have stumbled back to their apartments (or at least passed out somewhere) and long before the donut-and-coffee crowd has woken up.
I always procrastinate on laundry, feel it's too much a waste of time. It seems so much more efficient to me to wash socks in the sink than to head to the laundromat. I don't mind sweeping the floor, though, find it rather meditative, and border on obsessive when it comes to washing dishes/keeping the kitchen excessively tidy, but laundry? enh. Maybe it's because I have to decide what needs to be cleaned, pack it up, actually lug it over there, put the coins in, sit and wait, blah blah blah, probably it's just that I'm not a big fan of doing personal chores in public places.
Especially when some guy walked in just as I began the only enjoyable part -- taking the clothes out of the dryer and basking in their warmth and freshness. Like spring sunshine, courtesy of Maytag and Tide. Oh for all my complaining and procrastinating, there's a delight in the smell and feel of clean laundry, a simple challenge in calculating the best way to fold fabric, happiness in knowing that your clothes look like new. I'm feeling very proud of my domestic initiative, think I'll go home and make a coffee cake while wearing my now-clean apron.
And perhaps tonight I'll be able to snuggle into my clean sheets and dream of beautiful, light things and not wake up until morning.