Laundry. Mindless/incessant loading, unloading, folding and my least favorite- PUTTING IT AWAY. I have no idea why I drag my feet over such a small task. It irks me to no end no matter how many “spoonful of sugars” I choke down. I detest, loathe, despise, hate it.
Now, here on Crete, I expected to find a “Launderia” like they have around the corner from our hangout in Mexico. The kind of place where they weigh your bodily odored clothes and in two days they hand you a clear plastic bag filled with everything clean, folded and remarkably compact.
I searched. Nope. No one we asked knew of a place either.
So, I go to the hotel’s basement (which is appropriate- laundry feels like torture so a dank dungeon is a perfect setting) where I find two washers and no dryer. Then I realize I’ve seen dryers everywhere since I arrived. The au naturale kind of dryer. Old school dryers of the “apron and wicker basket on a beautiful ‘The Hills Are Alive With the Sound of Music’ spring day” kind of dryer. (I must be on a Julie Andrews kick.)
A rectangle of aluminum, which looks like a makeshift harp of the white trash variety, sat on our patio.
Crap.
That’s the dryer.
Hoping that years of reading and watching Little House On the Prairie would pay off, I summoned the spirit of Laura Engles and approached. It was easily enough unfolded and erected. Very simple. Thinking this was good, I was hopeful that my domestic tendencies would take over.
My sisters are laughing at that- domestic tendencies, they know all too well I was deprived of that gene.
Anyway, hoping I possessed something intrinsic over something so menial, a t-shirt was hung. Then I stopped. The autistic/problem solving devil popped up on my shoulder, “Do you really think you should put that in front?”
“No.” To the middle it went. All things long and heavy to the middle. All things lightweight and shorter to the exteriors. Happy, I seemed to catch on and quickly filled two “third world solar/wind powered appliances”.
There’s a curious older man staying next door with his wife. He’s always alone, pulling me aside to comment on the mundane- my least favorite subject- the weather I’m currently standing in. Boring. When my husband isn’t around the man asks what I’m doing for the day- I always reply, “Running around. Errands. Paperwork. The gym.” And then top it off with a glance at my watch and, “Geez, gotta go.”
Those things I can handle. It’s his eye oogling of this chubby, sagging, well below average female husk. What the hell he’s smarmiliy smirking about, I have no idea but it makes me uncomfortable.
My fluttering in the breeze wardrobe is currently in perfect eyeshot of Mr. Observant’s patio. I quickly realized that I really don’t wish him to get a look at my underthings. Call me uptight Victorian- but I took them down and hung them in the bathroom like my Grandma used to do.
After they’ve all been dried by the Mediteranian breeze, I plucked them off their strings and made myself immediately put them away. The scent is preferable to any dryer sheet but the chafing of stiff jeans is unpleasant on this honky’s skin. This afternoon I will begin an extensive hunt for the elusive “please do this crappy necessity for me” place that I know exists.
