Journ Article

“Which one is the washer and which one is the dryer?” I asked my roommate on laundry day. He just stared at me for a while, eyes sort of wide, before finally explaining that the washer was the one that opened at the top. I thanked him and dashed back into my room where a monumental pile of clothes had built up in the corner. I jammed them into my laundry bag and gathered my jumbo-sized bottle of Tide and box of Snuggle fabric softener. I then came to the startling realization that I had no idea to do next.

My girlfriend was online. I bothered her about it. “So I just jam a bunch of clothes in there and then drop a couple of pints of detergent on top?” I asked her, doing my best to understood this concept. I had never done laundry before, always dependent on others to wash my clothes. Now I was finally alone, forced to ask inane questions to people who once respected me. Fortunately, they were patient enough to deal with me and gave me just enough confidence to brave the laundry room.

And so I began the trip through the underground tunnels of King’s to meet my destiny. The bag of laundry over my shoulder got heavier with every step. I entered the small room timidly, staring down the row of eggshell-white machines, surveying them like a lion surveys his prey. After spending a few minutes verifying that the top-loading machines were, in fact, the washers, I drew back the drawstring on my bag and began to load the tangled mess of clothes into the machine.

The quarters made a satisfying clinking sound as they dropped, and the machine came to life with a hum. I was told I was supposed to put some of the detergent in when the machine filled with water. So began the laundry version of the infantile game of peek-a-boo. I’d wait, listening to the sound of water pouring into the chamber, before pouncing, opening the lid quickly and checking to see if all my clothing was submerged yet. After four of five times doing this, I decided it was full enough, and dumped the detergent inside. The spin cycle began.

When all was said and done, clothing moved from the washer to the dryer, fabric softener added and time elapsed, I once again entered that tiny laundry room. The clothes were reunited with the bag, and I was elated to find that they were not pink. Sure, they were still a little damp, but they were clean. I smiled far too much as I scooped the remaining clothes out of the machine, and threw the heavy bag back over my left shoulder. Whistling a triumphant song, I sauntered back up to my dorm room where I called my mom. She was proud.