Dirty Laundry & Literary Addiction

It’s nice to know I can go about three weeks without really having to do laundry. No, I don’t wear clothes multiple times to realize this feat. I just have ample amounts of clothing, dry cleaning, and substantial hamper(s). Eventually I would be forced to face the reality that I would have to use the onsite laundry at my new place. The day of “eventually” was today.

I clamored down three flights of stairs with a pocket full of quarters and flashback of the undergrad years. I had enough liquid detergent for one load so that cup full went to the darks. As for the whites, well that’s what bleach was invented for, right? Turns out the capacity of the washers was a little on the smaller side and only two were available. This whole sharing appliances will take some getting use to. I sacrificed a few items and sent them back to the hamper. Some things can stay dirty for a while (it’s why I have three bath towels and plenty of shirts). In the messy menagerie of sorting clothes I managed to get a sweater into the washer. It had to be stretched after the spin cycle and is on the DL until further notice. (Yes, I know that wool shrinks and smells when it gets wet – save your chastisements). Even better, one of the four dryers was busted so I had to make do with only one available machine.

In any case, the real reason I am writing about this is because it is my excuse for yet another attempt at reading Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand. I borrowed the book from Kirk almost two years ago. When he passed it my way he mentioned that he forgot he even owned it until someone gave it back to him (seems that it takes a while for people to read it, I’m in good company). Kirk has assured me, on multiple occasions, that once you get past the first 100 pages it is literary addiction. I have a mental block around page 50 – it’s my stalling point in my previous three attempts.

Now back to how communal laundry is helping me overcome my weaknesses. With the extra cycles of drying and my fear of clothing being stolen I sat it out in the basement for two hours. Humidity levels rose drastically as the washers and dryers were in full swing. It was more eastern block bathhouse than tropical paradise but it wasn’t 24 degrees cold like the world was on the other side of the window. With earbuds in place and soothing music on repeat, I cracked open the dauntingly thick paperback. Within minutes the book sustained two direct hits from falling water bombs. I adjusted the location of the rusty, detergent-encrusted folding chair a few times to avoid the drips of pipe condensation. With minor interruptions I read with purpose and retention.

With the final buzzer sounding I transitioned from reading to folding. After packing up and ascending the stairs the book is back on the nightstand. This time the bookmark is on page 47, just shy of the previous page-turning blockade. I will pledge my efforts to plowing through the remaining pages to reach that Zionistic literary addiction Kirk has promised will be mine.

Fell free to poke and prod me on my progress, harassment is encouraged.