Laundrolamentations

Laundry is always an issue.  Murphy must've been washing his clothes when he proclaimed that whatever can go wrong, will.  I cannot tell you the amount of times I've screwed up while doing laundry.  For a brief moment it is comical experience, like when you pluck a sweater out of the dryer and it is now suitable for the wardrobe of  a Chiuaua, or when your white tanks tops are suddenly appropriate for February 14th and only February 14th.  But then you realize... shit.  The sweater I sprung for at J. Crew may now be adorably tiny, but it sure as hell won't fit me, I don't have a puppy, and I hate wearing the color pink.

Laundry plagues me.  Here in Europe it costs me 4 euro every time I want to use a washing machine, and 50 cents for every 8 minutes of hot air I want to use.  So basically I pay 5 euro for 45 minutes to an hour of anxiety, wondering what item of clothing I'll never wear again.  And then there's the socks.  The god damn socks.  Why, for the love of God, do I always lose a sock?  They're not that small, and most of mine are pretty and argyle, so you'd think they'd be clearly visible to me when I go to empty out the machines.  But no, it isn't so simple.  Perhaps the laundromat fairy has it out for me.  Yes, that must be it.  A tiny winged creature, the keeper of suds, must have a penchant for single socks.  She probably gets a big chuckle every time I sort through my clean laundry and am left with a few lonely socks.  I don't mind mismatching them, but I feel so bad when a sock is left without its mate.  I wonder if it's sad when I put it back in my closet, left violently separated from its twin.  Poor little things.

You know what else?  Public displays of undergarments.  When emptying machines, it is inevitable that I will drop something.  Furthermore, said item will in fact be a 'delicate.'  Most likely an item purchased at Victoria's Secret.  No longer a secret, all fellow laundry doers now receive a glimpse into my life.  A glimpse unwillingly given by yours truly.  Then I'll try and pick it up.  3 more will fall out.  I'll chuckle, but really I'm dying inside.  A slow and embarrassing demise I'll endure, and then I'll sit in the presence of those who have just seen my underwear for another 20 minutes while they dry.

Honestly.  Will this ever get easier?  At least a girl can dream - some day, I'll have my own washer and dryer, and my clothes will come out fresh, dry, and not seen by the public eye, and what a glorious day that will be.