I enjoy going to the laundromat. Truly, I enjoy the humanness of it all. It’s like on mass transit: everybody is just here to get a thing done so we’ll mostly be polite. The trolleys are a multi-functional assist that I only learned the full capabilities of by watching. Quarter machines feel nostalgic these days, as if adulting is its own prize. The dirty clothes are another whole adventure. The before part actually is a strange experience, and so trite–airing it, and all–but the after is an underrated opportunity to see your own stuff anew. Although I’ve found that strangers universally do not pay any attention, a wardrobe folded publicly does ask for some scrutiny. Most of my clothes are nicely worn to the point of not really bothering to look clean despite being so. I appreciate that—I’m not a person who concerns themself with wrinkles. There’s something to learn from clean clothes.

Today at the laundromat I was preoccupied with the forests of New Mexico closing for fire safety. This would make it tricky to find a home for the night, no less on a holiday weekend. I didn’t bother to dry my clothes for more than one quarter’s time, never mind that the enormous TV in this two-dozen machine laundromat was playing that old Michael J. Fox show where he’s a cute nerd. I was laughing out loud as I laid my damp laundry into the bag in a way that would make drying it easy. Being in the hot car for a while wouldn’t hurt, then I’d hang them when I found a spot.

Et voila.