Our washer broke this week. That's bad. We have seven people currently living in our house and over half of them are males. (Yes, you know what that means.)
So this afternoon Mom and I took our baskets of laundry to the laundromat in town.
In my mind those places had long been obsolete. Laundromats were where little bears got left behind and slid on soap suds and slept in empty baskets and met laundromat-artists and won a pocket on their overalls for all their mischief.
Laundromats were where love-struck Spiderman read Longfellow.
Laundromats were not places I went. In fact, I couldn't remember ever going into one.
But this week we needed one. And boy, was I glad they were there.
In we went with our baskets! The lines of machines- massive, steel, rumbling!
We were not at all sure how to use them. If somebody hadn't informed us- we would have used the largest machine which was two to four times too big for our amount of laundry. We counted out quarters in handfuls. Then we didn't know how to put soap in- or in what order. The lady running the place helped us. A rather large middle-aged women barked out directions from her perch on the waiting-bench.
I liked seeing the laundry spin. I liked seeing the suds. I liked leaving and hanging at Starbucks and returning to find it all done. I liked seeing people of different ages and cultures gathering in one large, noisy room and dragging out all their dirty laundry.
Laundromat, we are officially friends.