I did something I have never done before. I took my mounds of laundry to Mr. Fabulous as I always do, but rather than shove quarters into multiple machines and kill time watching “The Bachelor” on the tiny TV with fuzzy reception because rabbit ears, not cable, capture a weak signal, I opted for the wash-and-fold service. I felt quite decadent, almost lazy, doing so. But then I didn’t. My Easter Sunday tips were better than I expected, so what the hell.
It was so easy, almost seductive in its ease. Drop off at 9 a.m., pick up after 5 p.m. Fabric softener? Sure. What temp for the clothing? Cold wash, low-heat dry, please. Warm wash for the linens? Absolutely. So easy.
And while someone else sorted my darks from the whites, measured the detergent, and watched my T-shirts and jeans and sheets and towels spin round and round, I walked the dog, ran four miles, and worked a very full day. While that same someone took care to fold my laundry items just so, I met a friend for appetizers and a glass of wine, and we talked about how our prior bad weeks had evolved into a good one, and we quietly toasted the reasons why.
Over the past eight months, I have plunged headlong into working and playing equally hard. Every week, just as my liver or my brain screamed “Enough!” I almost looked forward to my down time at Mr. Fabulous. You can ponder much and decide little while seated in a plastic white chair for several hours, watching others watch their belongings become clean again.
But this time, my laundry was waiting for me. Three clear plastic bags, each tagged “RG,” were lined up on a countertop. I hardly recognized any of the items inside the bags as mine, as neatly arranged as they were. They seemed crisp and bright and almost brand new.
I am off to D.C. for a few days. I will see friends and watch basketball, and I will likely ponder much and decide what I can. I’ll visit Mr. Fabulous again next week, when I return to my ongoing spring break that finally seems to be winding down as I settle down as best I can. I am not sure who will tackle this ever recurring chore–Mr. Fabulous himself or me. Happily, I can decide that on a whim.