i get anxious doing laundry in new places. the vulnerability of trucking clothes out in broad daylight. the inability to predict whether the washers will all be taken. the elevator style non-interaction between fellow launderers. the leaving of clothes unattended. the setting aside an entire afternoon of washing, drying, folding.

and yet when it’s done, when the shirts are up on hangers and the socks are in neat little monogamous bundles, i feel a sort of peace with the world. like the collective weight of the laundry is finally off my shoulders, at least for another 3 or 4 weeks.

it’s easy to forget all the unexpected pleasures. washing three loads in parallel. sweating from shear exertion. bumping into people in the neighborhood. savoring wired: a romance out by the pool in the sun! ending up with clean clothes.

finally doing laundry at my apartment complex (without requiring a car) makes me feel like i live here in a way i hadn’t felt yet.