Yeah, well, the election’s over: back on your knees. And for me, three months of jury duty are over. The judge said, “Never darken my door again.”
So now it’s time for Thanksgiving. “Turkey? Again?”
And one of the more outstandingly mundane parts of life: getting in touch with my inner laundry. Maybe I should use what a friend saw: gluten-free mineral water. (Free trade, I suspect.)
Yes, my inner laundry. A sense of self, as I dump some of my intimate coverings into the deep nothingness of the washer. Then move them into the maw of the dryer.
’Round and ’round: the cycle of life. The cycle of water from the spigot to the backyard, into the aquifer, and maybe some of it back to the spigot again. And the cycle between relatively clean and soiled, as the empty hamper gulps its first few morsels the very night of a laundry’s completion. Never ending.
So I sit here, in clothing some of which was washed as recently as two weeks ago. (Yes, I have that much clothing.) Waiting for a load of clothing to dry, cycling a layer of warmth for Kitty Hippy in the cold garage. And a new layer of lint in the trap. Lint for the landfill.
Knowing full well that no matter how hard I try, there’s another self following me about, shedding skin cells and sweat, and gathering Santa Fe dust, for yet another load of laundry in a week. And I am at peace.
In touch with the whir of my inner laundry. May the spin be with you.