I finally did my laundry this week.
There was a good five day stretch or so where I was so so so not going to schlep all the way to the freaky catacombs of a laundry room in my apartment building basement.
It's the kind of place where you expect Norman Bates or is it his mother? to come creeping out of a storage room, complete with a shiny, seven inch Henckels Santoku knife... ready to turn me into a Rainbow Roll.
Sounds nice, doesn't it?
The problem with avoiding the scary laundry room (and forgetting to bring the funky clothes to Mom and Dad's) is a girl tends to run out of underthings.
I weighed my options last week - do I run to Target (say it in a highfalutin' French accent with a soft G) and buy some bargain basement undies, or do I choose the even lazier (is that possible??) option:
I went with Plan B.
For a while my bathroom looked like Victoria's Secret was that she liked to throw up, projectile panty vomiting all over the inside of my shower. Thongs hanging from every hook possible on my Showerhead caddy.
Drip-dry limping my way through another day of not doing the laundry.
A couple days ago I realized the jig was up. My rotating wardrobe of clothing scraped from the floor and shaken out wasn't cutting it anymore. Granted, the trying situation hadn't reached a Code Red: Febreeze Stat status, but surely I was a day or two away from teetering on the edge of Desperate Times Call For Desperate Measures.
So I got my five dollars in change (during that brief, sweet moment when the coins are popping out of the machine, I pretend I'm in Vegas and that I'm the Big Winner) and collected the mass of dirty clothing, headed for that little hell hole of a laundry room.
If you could smell me now.