PoeticaL
cluttering the net since 2001

at the laundromat

Monday, Oct. 17, 2005
We all know how much I hate to do laundry. And how much do I hate to do the man’s laundry. Well about as much as I hate the idea of needles directly in my eyes. But last night something odd happened. Something I couldn’t even begin to explain to Rick…and so I didn’t and he won’t know about it unless or until he reads it here.



The Laundromat I go to is out of convenience not really out of choice. It’s across the street and diagonal from the apartment complex. We have washers/dryers at the complex but they’re outside and they’re regular size. I like to throw all of my clothes into the industrial size washer because more water gets to circulate through them. (ok so I’m weird or something) This particular Laundromat that I go to is almost always occupied by other people. And there is not a Sunday night that I go there that some homeless person doesn’t ask me for spare change. It urks me but I often remind myself that I am blessed and that this is par for the course. But I never give out change because I fear that if I did there people would never leave me alone. (and yes it’s usually the same 2 or 3 suspects who ask me every time)



The other thing that happens there is that there’s always a few guys hanging around doing their laundry. Sometimes it’s guys I’ve seen there before but most often it’s not. Last night there was a guy straight out of the 80’s with his long hair and tight Levi’s driving a muscle car who told me I had beautiful hair. It’s always nice to get a compliment, but at the Landromat..yah it’s weird. There was also a skinny black guy drinking a beer (because these homeless guy’s always have a beer in a brown bag….always in Florida, it’s also weird) who asked me if I was married. I answered, “yes as of Nov 26th.” This particular guy then looked down and realized I was folding my man’s boxer shorts. I am very particular about how I fold clothes. I always give every garment that strong snap in the air and then match the seams and then fold in 3rds. I am oddly particular about how I fold Rick’s t-shirts and since he wears blue t-shirts with the company name on the back/front for work anyone at the Laundromat can see where he works. I am odd about this and I tend to hold the t-shirt backwards so the biggest of words are facing me and not away where these people can read the information. (why oh why do I do that and why does it bother me?) As soon as I said that I was getting married and he realized I was folding boxer shorts, he grinned a half toothless grin at me and said, “Thaz one lucky man I tell ya.” In that instance I wondered if it was because of who I am or because I was folding said man’s boxer shorts. Men are really something else about doing laundry. Ask any guy and he’ll quickly tell you, ‘oh hell no, my wife does that.” Or they’ll say what the long haired 80’s guy said to me, “I wish I had a good girl to do this for me.”



They say that the way to a man’s heart is thru his stomach and my man can attest to the fact that any and every meal that got cooked this weekend was done so by his talented hands. The boy can cook a mean ass breakfast that’s for sure. I cannot make my bacon the way he does. Cannot. He says it’s because I cook everything on “high” and he’s probably right. I have no patience in the kitchen.



The point of this entry? I have to admit, there are times when I am folding Rick’s laundry when I feel totally zen like. Even as the sweat from the Florida heat is rolling down my lower back and I’m wondering just how many t-shirts that man can dirty in one week’s time let alone two weeks, I often feel the fabric of “his” clothing in my fingers and get this emotional electricity that run’s through my body. I have a good man at home, who’s trustworthy and honest and real and my best friend, and these are his work shirts that he will sweat clear thru in the coming week because he works hard every day. These clothes are proof that he’s mine, he’s mine to take care of and love and give back to. And I’ll admit that sometimes the best part of doing his laundry is when I am digging thru the 2 heaping baskets to sort out his laundry and his smell waifs up and for me that is the smell of love, that smell is a combination that is no other man but mine, the one that I sleep next to, the one that I worry about, the one that has done more for me than my bitchiness ever verbally admits out loud. Sometimes when I get home like I did last night and he’s half asleep I bitch at him to come help me get all of the laundry out of the car because I miss him and just want to spend five more minutes with him before he has to go to sleep and leave me again.



How and why I cannot tell him these things is beyond me. I can only complain or say, “C’mon Rick come help me..I did ALL OF YOURRRR laundry, come help me.” Maybe it’s because every time I begged my own mother to play Candyland with me, she said no. And that rejection was like being sliced in half. Maybe it’s because of all the phone calls I made to my ex that never got answered. Maybe I am always always afraid to open my mouth and verbalize on a daily basis what he means to me because I am afraid of pain and I associate expressing love with feeling pain. I wish I could figure it out and resolve it. I try, oh how I try. Funny enough on Saturday I hugged him close to me and for the longest time. His body feeling like a blessing against mine, I feel a closeness to him that I never felt with anyone else. We fit together in those hugs like puzzle pieces, snug, right….perfect. And he said, “What do you want??? You never hug me that long.” Teehee…this tells me I need to do that more often just because I want nothing but him.



In the meantime….Rick I love you….and yes sometimes (not always, lets NOT get carried away here) when I’m folding your laundry…I feel close to you and I feel like the luckiest girl alive to have you in my life. Sometimes though when I’m folding your laundry I wish you didn’t change your clothes so damned much too….yah lets not go apeshit on this entry honey. Thanks for putting up with my “stressing out” and thanks for always realizing that it’s not about you. Oh and for laughing at me for doing it…that’s the best. Oh and when I pointed out how my ring fits perfect and I can't wait to add the wedding band and make it complete....it really makes my heart happy that my ring never rolls around, never feels out of place and doesn't urk the heck out of me...just like I explained, but something you might not have gotten out of what I was blabbering about...because I blabber when I try to get all mushy....I love that it fits perfect because that's how you make me feel, like "we" fit perfect. It's so different this time honey...I said that already but it's different because I know you inside and out and I know just how lucky I am to have you and more so that you want to have me in return. I love you!
8:27 a.m. ::
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