I have a clothes washer and a dryer in my house now, and this may be the most significant thing that’s happened to me all month.
For the past year, I’ve been taking all of my dirty laundry to my parents’ house, about a twenty-minute drive away. It’s not been all bad – I get to chat with them for a bit, watch the telly, maybe sneak a yogurt from the refrigerator… but, at the same time, it’s been… I can’t think of the right word.
Not a bit. Way too strong.
Getting closer, but still wrong…
Whatever. I’ll think of it.
Anyway, now I’ve got these two machines in my basement – brand new machines, all white and chrome and shiny. A bit out of place in a dilapidated basement with dripping pipes, crumbling walls, and all-you-can-breathe asbestos just a lick away.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt quite like a neanderthal as I did when I first nervously approached my new machines. I’ve never had to read a manual to figure out how to use a washer, but it took me some study to figure out how to get the machine started. I’m still not sure how I’m supposed to clean it without a professional pit team to disassemble the detergent dish. But the strangest thing of all was when I pressed the on switch for the first time, and a peppy string of tinny notes suddenly played from the machine.
My washer and dryer sing. They sing when they turn on. They sing when they turn off. They sing when they switch modes, and they sing when I leave them alone for too long with the laundry still inside.
And that’s a wonderful song. I put the laundry in the machine, I go run an errand, and then, when I come home, I’ve got this choir of appliances singing to me, welcoming me home. I’ve never felt so liberated, walking into my own home.
Yeah, that’s it. That was the word.