Laundromat Tangent
A Micro Memoir from my creative writing class
My thighs press gently against the cold cup of caffeine to keep it upright while I sit haphazardly on the hard chair. My favorite squishy headphones cover my ear holes in hopes to block out the whirring and thudding of the laundromat.
Washer: 03 minutes
An older pear-shaped person, who’s drab green pants and sandy colored shirt resemble the colors of said fruit, folds laundry with a blank look on their face. Droopy and stubborn. Guessing cancer took their hair and depleted the fat from their face, they look like they’re just trying to get by. Their sweatshirt hangs off their body, though taut on their hips, swishing back and forth as they fold.
Washer: 00 minutes
Click.
The washer door unlocks. Time to move all the wet clothes to the dryer. My entire body sighs. It hurts. It’s tired. I’ve already pushed my body too much this week.
I take a sip of my cinnamon coconut milk latte, a bribe to push through the pain.
Dryer: 33 minutes
The pear-person has left. My wrists and elbows are angry from lifting and shoving. I try to sit still and wait, but my body can’t be still, thanks to the pain. I’m shifting and squirming like a kid sitting in a church pew.
Most of life is basically that. Trying to be well-behaved and not knowing what your limits are until you cross the line. I’m just that little girl sitting quietly waiting for church to be over, entertaining myself with doodles and scribbles, sucking on mints to keep my mouth from uttering snarky comments about Jesus.
Lyrics blast through my headphones, “I’m a sucker for the girls of summer.” That little church girl has no idea she’d be listening to lesbian punk-ska music in 30 years. Her dreams of having 4 cats, 2 dogs, 2 horses, and being a rollercoaster engineer would shift into being a single mom of 2, dragging her chronically ill body through life. But, hey, she got her cats.
Dryer: 20 minutes
My back is starting to ache; my neck is pissed at me for staring at my phone. A few plain people switch their loads or fold their clothes. The attendant busies themselves with tidying. 2000s Muzak glides through the air, “she’s so highhhhh, high above me, she’s so lovely...”
Dryer: 17 minutes
I turn my headphones up. I shift my gaze up to see a 20-something kid with dark skin and Nike attire. They’re tall and lean and with their glasses, they look just like the shift leader of McDonald’s that impregnated me in 2004.
My heart sinks when I wonder how that baby would be doing had my body not thrust it out of me after only 8 weeks of growing. I think he would look a lot like that kid.
The dryer door pops open; the attendant dashes over with a chair and props it shut.
Dryer: 11 minutes
A ska rendition of, “Someone I Used to Know,” wiggles those ear hairs of mine. My eyes get teary. Fuck dead babies. Fuck my stupid body that can’t do the things I want. Fuck this. Wasting what energy I do have on laundry when I’d love to be skanking and moshing at some shitty punk show. Instead, I’m that goody two shoes church girl again, doing all the things I’m supposed to do and trying to keep quiet and still. Being a mom, being practical, being an adult.
The Mountain Goats start singing through my headphones, “I am going to make it through this year if it kills me.”
Dryer: 00 minutes