I love the laundromat. Though I have actually gotten worse at cleaning my clothes. I have lost, for instance, my spray bottle of Shout which I use to erase the grime from my clothes. The whites especially. Most of mine are a bit of, hinting toward another color, like the funked water that pours from gas station pop fountains, a little like lemonade, a little like the water you wanted.
Tonight I threw everything in the was at normal temperature, poured white powder from a little paper box of Clorox, added some C grade detergent and watched the spinning machine thrash the dirt out of my clothes into puddle colored water. Did some grading while the news played on a flatscreen beside a painting of the nativity. Obama is in town. Will he get to eat at his favorite restaurant, the Valois? NBC news needs to know. If I get tired tomorrow morning I will steel myself with the thought that only a CTA ride away the President is drinking cafeteria coffee or hunting the bacon tray for worthy pieces.
I let my laundry run in the dryer for the full 30 minutes until it is piping hot, just so I can squeeze out a few more grades. When I fold my shirts, I can see that I have sealed the pit stains into my whites. I look to the nativity scene, then back to my clothes. I'll just have to wear sweaters over the white shirts, that's all. And find some other reasonable things to feel good about, nearby things: my socks are hot and stretchy, which I like. And I'll be moving this weekend, which is more work than laundry, but a better payoff afterward.