My First Time... Doing Laundry

You know that one scene in "Friends" where Rachel finally learns to do her own laundry at the public mat and, upon asserting her place in New York City, shares her first impromptu kiss with Ross? Well, just call me Rachel Green.

Though there was no man for me to plant a big wet one on, willingly anyway, I did finally set my place at the folding table of the city. I took my dirty clothes to the local mat.

Normally I drop off laundry and stale pleasantries at the cleaners next door. Because why sacrifice convenience for a few extra bucks? Well, my wallet has been a little dusty lately — a year in the city will do that to a struggling writer. (Damn you, Strand bookstore!) I'm looking to pinch a few more pennies than the ones I save by brown-bagging it to the office every day.

So I packed up my smelly socks and high-tailed it to the Peaches & Klean a few blocks over. With a name like that, how bad could it be?

I walked the three streets with purpose. Partly because I had never ventured to that part of my neighborhood, but mostly because my bag was heavy. I feared I would never be able to pick it up again if I lost my momentum. 

Peaches & Klean was familiar with the drone of the dryers and the smell of Downy in the air, but it was still very much a foreign land. What are these wire karts and why are they here? Is there a supermarket behind the back door? I checked. There's not.

I really had to pull all my knowledge from that one "Friends" episode. I started unloading all my coins, ready to fill the machine with my change. Quite quickly did I realize that NYC's technology had progressed since the air date of that episode. The machine looked unassuming but glared at me with soapy residue as I tried to insert my coins into a slot that didn't exist. I needed a "laundry card," whatever that was. Ok, so we've upgraded. No big deal. However, the laundry card dispenser had not progressed so far as to accept any major credit cards. Only paper cash. True irony. 

With my fresh "laundry card" in hand, I swiped it through the first machine. I piled in my clothes, along with my dignity, and pressed start with a zeal I had not previously known I possessed. 

Looking around, I gathered intel on the other customers and planned my next move. Calculating the minutes left on each dryer, I slowly moved toward the to-be-next-available machine. Peaches & Klean is a truly dog-eat-dog mat. As I snagged the empty dryer, I was overcome with an immense sense of pleasure. I got the hang of this, I thought. I'm a regular laundry card carrier, I howled. Is there a frequent-dryer minutes plan?

Upon the end of my spin cycle, I tossed my wet tanks into the dryer, shut the door, and tapped started. And tapped it again... And then kicked the button with a force that would make Gerard Butler rethink his "300" performance. I couldn't get the damn thing to start! #newb

After a brief instructional lesson from the merciful woman at the next dryer, I watched as my clothes tumbled and my Saturday night faded into the clogged lint trap. Is this what living in the city is all about? Spending your only date night in a stuffy laundromat? Judging by the looks of fatigue and disdain on all the other faces, the rest of the room would agree with that.

I reluctantly folded my clothes as I caught up with the latest celebrity gossip on the wall TV. Yes, my clothes were still damp. No, I couldn't put them back in the dryer and risk another embarrassing showdown. Also, I had no more cash for my card.

As I headed for the exit, I wished desperately for Rachel Green's celebratory moment. I thought first of Ross Geller, even though he is fictional (but still SO REAL). Then I thought of my loving boyfriend. Too bad he was all the way in Brooklyn. Then I looked at the young boy who appeared to my right. I began to fall into a bout of self-pity, until the young boy offered to me a single piece of cloth — a leopard print panty that had fallen from my wire kart. He smiled and walked away.

I should have been embarrassed. I know I should have been. But if he wasn't, I wasn't about to be either. I simply thanked him and went on my way. 

With an extra pep in my step, I headed home, satisfied and content with my first big-girl, city-girl laundry experience. Then I remembered the load of dirty towels I had forgotten to take from the bottom of my bag, and I cried at the notion that my laundry excursion had just been prolonged. But I straightened up, determined not to sour this memory. Tomorrow, I thought. Yes, tomorrow.

I may even treat myself to some fabric softener.