I’m writing today’s post in one of my favorite places: the laundromat. Don’t judge; it’s really a fantastic place. See, I’ve always loved everything about laundry (except the actual doing it part really). Ever since I was little, the laundry aisle in the grocery store has been my favorite; my mom always told me I was damaging my brain when I would stop there for a minute to take a whiff. In our townhouse, we had a top-loading washer, and I used to go down to the basement while it was running and lift the lid because I loved the steam that came off the hot, soapy water (my mom told me to stop doing that too). When I was sixteen, we got a front-loading washer, and one afternoon I sat in front of it with my brother’s girlfriend, and we watched the entire cycle. And now, I live mere minutes away from a laundromat, and I couldn’t ask for anything better. I love sitting and watching my clothes spin; there’s just something relaxing about it that cheers me up no matter how bad the day.
Today wasn’t a bad day by any stretch of the imagination. It was simply a long day, mostly because I want it to be Friday so very much. Why is it that time decides to move so incredibly, excruciatingly slow when you really want it to speed up so that it’s practically nonexistent? One of those mysteries of life that will never be explained, I guess. Anyways, going to the laundromat was a wonderful relief from my interminably long day. Time seems to disappear in the laundromat, and all I really care about is the mindless spinning that somehow cleans off my clothes and cleans out my mind. The laundromat is this magical sanctuary where I can check all my thoughts at the door and spend a blissful hour and a half surrounded by nothing but machines humming and water running before I’m forced to pick up my package of cares and enter back into reality. Oh how grateful I am for my sanctuary.
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