When I was in grade eight, I hung out with a boy who would grow up to become a stoner. We hung out together because we balanced each other well. I had a lot to say, he had a lot of time to listen. I wanted someone to agree with me, he wanted someone to agree with. I was hyper and gleeful and he was calm and content. He radiated a serenity and always made me feel better. He was always willing to listen and strived to make me happier in times of sadness. He was really great. We hung out together because we had known each other since elementary school, and because we made each other's transitions to high school smoother. He always had my back and was always on my side. Most of all, he never asked for anything in return for all that he did for me; we were just happy to be together.
We went through this phase together, while we were in grade eight. We decided to not spend our lunches with the rest of our friends at school because school was too draining. We set out to find ourselves a place that was private; a place where the noise and hustle and bustle of school lunch hour wouldn't be able to reach us. Unfortunately, most of those places were taken. The older kids, the cooler kids and other social groups, had marked certain locations as theirs and we were in no position to invade. Instead, we decided to extend our search for the perfect place beyond the confines of our school. Luckily for us, our school, despite being in a quiet residential neighbourhood, had a few good shops.
The first place we decided to test out was the next door hospital. Believe it or not, the food was decent, but the noise was far worse in the hospital cafeteria than in any other place in our school. Moreover, we sort of realized that two teens hanging out amidst cancer patients on their lunch breaks was a little weird. So we kept looking.
We tried out almost every small café, every organic juice press place and even a grocery store and video game rental shop. But not one of the said hospitality establishments was perfect. Some cafés were great in atmosphere, but lacking in coffee quality. Some places were vice versa. Some places were too loud and busy during lunch rush. Nothing seemed perfect, but we were determined to find the ideal place.
After exhausting all realistic options, we turned our attention to the only remaining establishment within walking distance - the local laundromat. It was practically empty when we walked in that first day. I asked my friend what we were doing here and he told me to never judge a book by its cover and to give the place a shot. Since it seemed like our last resort, I succumbed to the idea and entered the dim, dingy, gray store.
Washing machines were stacked in pairs along the entire wall. They looked old-fashioned. Actually, everything about the place was old-fashioned. The sign on the door looked like it was resurrected from a fifties movie. The front-loading machines were a pastel beige color, reminiscent of old detergent commercials. To be perfectly honest, the lights were dim, making me feel as if they hadn't been changed since the fifties either. Inside there was an openness. High ceilings, long rows of chairs and the murky way the room looked in the light added to the feeling. We sat down in two of the chairs. And there was nothing. No machine was on. It was just quiet.
Then the owner approached us and asked us what we were doing at his shop without a laundry basket. My friend responded on both of our behalf's, honestly explaining to the owner that we were looking for a relaxing place to spend our lunches at.
"Have you tried the library?"
"It's too far" my friend explained.
"Do you guys plan on washing any clothing?"
"We were more hoping that we could just sit here."
The owner took a good long look at us, examining every pore of our being, and produced a small nod. It was with that nod that the owner disappeared into the back of the shop, and that we took a sigh of relief and sunk into the peace of the laundromat.
We had bought some danishes at the coffee shop across the street before coming into the laundromat, so that we wouldn't be starving over our lunch break. They were really good danishes, actually, but I was in such a state of Zen that day that I didn't notice the deliciousness of the pastries; I didn't really notice anything. It was so calming in there that I could sit there without the slightest bit of worry or care.
We kept coming back to that laundromat often. In fact, we were there everyday, except for the times we needed to be at school for some event. Sometimes, we would just watch as the machines spun round and round, becoming almost hypnotized by the motion. Sometimes, we would just stare through the glass covers of the machines into the steel plating of the machines. It was almost as if we felt like we could see our souls in the depths of those machines.
I reckon that it was that year of my life that made me so happy fold the laundry for my mom every week. I reckon that it was that year of my life that made me fall in love and feel at complete peace in the laundry room.
To this day, I still ask to go to the laundry room downstairs every time there is a fresh batch of laundry in need of folding. I enjoy it so much and that is what brings me to the complaint I have.
I go to the laundry room and enjoy my time, but I always see people who don't. People who are so incredibly busy in their sad lives that they do not have the minimal time needed to fold their clothes in the laundry room to spare. They place their clothes into the machines, and exit the laundry room. Fine, that's fine. But you know what really irks me? The lifelessness of their existences. The fact that they go home after placing their laundry in the machine and set a timer to remind them to pick it up. They run like clockwork.
The machine washes the clothes for 29 minutes, and in exactly 29 minutes, they return to place their wet clothes in the dryer. The dryer washes the clothes for exactly 55 minutes, and in exactly 55 minutes, they return to place their clothes into their baskets and carry them to their apartments. To some, this sounds like a respectable action; to some, this doesn't even sound strange. And to those, I pity you. If lack so much in your life that you eagerly wait for the beep of watch to tell you to pick up your clothing, you have no life.
Those sad, menopausal women I encounter have nothing to do with their lives. They put their clothes to wash, go home and watch an episode of Dora the Explorer and anxiously get up to place their clothes in a different machine. Such a miserable routine, don't you think? How is it possible to never forget your clothes? How is it that you can never be pre-occupied with anything enough to forget to barge into the laundry and take your clothes?
You would think that such banal women would enjoy to come to the laundry and spend some of their abundantly free time riffling through their clothes; searching for bleach stains perhaps? But they don't. They walk in and take care of their business in record time. No stopping for anything, as if someone is holding a gun to their heads; as if they actually have something to do in their apartments. But they don't. They prove that they don't because they are so punctual in retrieving their laundry. So they don't have anything to do at home, yet they don't have time to spare to fold their clothes, or check them in the laundry room. How does that make any sense?
They disturb me. They make me feel like they are androids. I resent them. Not only am I always late to retrieving the laundry, I also relish the time I spend folding it in the laundry room. Not to brag, but isn't that how it should be? I hate punctual people. I feel like being overly-punctual sends a bad message - a message that reads "I have no life". Just chill out.
We kept coming back to that laundromat often. In fact, we were there everyday, except for the times we needed to be at school for some event. Sometimes, we would just watch as the machines spun round and round, becoming almost hypnotized by the motion. Sometimes, we would just stare through the glass covers of the machines into the steel plating of the machines. It was almost as if we felt like we could see our souls in the depths of those machines.
I reckon that it was that year of my life that made me so happy fold the laundry for my mom every week. I reckon that it was that year of my life that made me fall in love and feel at complete peace in the laundry room.
To this day, I still ask to go to the laundry room downstairs every time there is a fresh batch of laundry in need of folding. I enjoy it so much and that is what brings me to the complaint I have.
I go to the laundry room and enjoy my time, but I always see people who don't. People who are so incredibly busy in their sad lives that they do not have the minimal time needed to fold their clothes in the laundry room to spare. They place their clothes into the machines, and exit the laundry room. Fine, that's fine. But you know what really irks me? The lifelessness of their existences. The fact that they go home after placing their laundry in the machine and set a timer to remind them to pick it up. They run like clockwork.
The machine washes the clothes for 29 minutes, and in exactly 29 minutes, they return to place their wet clothes in the dryer. The dryer washes the clothes for exactly 55 minutes, and in exactly 55 minutes, they return to place their clothes into their baskets and carry them to their apartments. To some, this sounds like a respectable action; to some, this doesn't even sound strange. And to those, I pity you. If lack so much in your life that you eagerly wait for the beep of watch to tell you to pick up your clothing, you have no life.
Those sad, menopausal women I encounter have nothing to do with their lives. They put their clothes to wash, go home and watch an episode of Dora the Explorer and anxiously get up to place their clothes in a different machine. Such a miserable routine, don't you think? How is it possible to never forget your clothes? How is it that you can never be pre-occupied with anything enough to forget to barge into the laundry and take your clothes?
You would think that such banal women would enjoy to come to the laundry and spend some of their abundantly free time riffling through their clothes; searching for bleach stains perhaps? But they don't. They walk in and take care of their business in record time. No stopping for anything, as if someone is holding a gun to their heads; as if they actually have something to do in their apartments. But they don't. They prove that they don't because they are so punctual in retrieving their laundry. So they don't have anything to do at home, yet they don't have time to spare to fold their clothes, or check them in the laundry room. How does that make any sense?
They disturb me. They make me feel like they are androids. I resent them. Not only am I always late to retrieving the laundry, I also relish the time I spend folding it in the laundry room. Not to brag, but isn't that how it should be? I hate punctual people. I feel like being overly-punctual sends a bad message - a message that reads "I have no life". Just chill out.
