Spinning Yarns

There are profound truths to be found at the bottom of a pile of laundry. Oh, sure, they’re not the kind of earth-shattering truths that lead a dying man to peace, nor do they answer the fundamental questions of the universe, like where we came from or why we’re here — but they’re often of much greater interest to the average person, who spends a lot more time doing laundry than dying, at any rate.

You might be wondering, “What in the devil have you been smoking, and where can I get some?” Well, even if you aren’t, you should probably know that it’s a little-known fact that you can get high from standing around in a laundromat waiting for your clothes to dry. If you believed the previous sentence for more than about three or four microseconds, I would like you to please write me at your first opportunity, because I have some swampla…er….resort property to sell you in Florida.

But I digress.

Some of the hidden laundry truths are subtle — such as, “Where in the name of screaming Jesus are all the mates for these single socks?” Sheesh. Socks mystify me. When I pull them from the drawer, they are in pairs. Otherwise, I would not have pulled them from the drawer. Likewise, I put both of them on — one on each foot, whereupon they remain mostly in position (bar pulling them up now and again) until I take them both off. It is a rare occasion indeed on which I remove one sock without also removing the other. Likewise, having been removed, they are deposited — together — into the laundry basket or some other appropriate receptacle.

Now, since the laundry basket is transferred sine perturbatione, so to speak, to the laundromat, and the clothes are all dumped forthwith into the washing machines, I must conclude that the appearance of unmatched socks on the laundry table after all is said and done is the product of one of the following things: (a.) Gremlins with a taste for socks, (b.) Perverted individuals with a fetish for stealing individual socks from people’s laundry, or (c.) Spontaneous sock combustion.

I’m inclined to discount option (c.), since it is notoriously difficult to burn things underwater (if it happened in the washer), and the rest of my clothing shows no scorch marks (if it happened in the dryer). And, since I’m also customarily disinclined to believe in gremlins, it remains only that there must be a whole bunch of people out there who really get their rocks off by stealing one or two of a person’s socks right out of the washer. And not only that, it’s been going on for years. You might think it’s crazy, but I’ve heard it happens to lots of other people too — there might just be a whole underground society of these people out there, stealing socks to get their jollies. I hesitate to speculate much further along these lines, however, since their agents might be anywhere.

Fortunately, although I never seem to locate the mates for these stranded critters, the fact that my overall quantity of matched socks does not appear to diminish appreciably over time leads me to postulate the existence of a rival organization, which derives similar twisted pleasure out of sneaking into people’s homes and matching their unmatched socks, like a sick postmodern Santa Claus. I’m even less inclined to speculate along these lines, however, since I hate straitjackets.

But there are other snippets of wisdom in the laundry too — ancient mysteries that were hidden from me in childhood. Only as an adult have I come to appreciate the depth of understanding and satisfaction that is to be gained in the process of doing one’s laundry.*

* The more astute among you might be inclined to point out that this is because my mother did all my laundry for me while I was growing up. To you I have only this to say: Shut up.

For example, laundry is a great equalizer. Everybody does laundry — students, bankers, waitresses, college administrators, mechanics, cashiers, and endlessly on…and almost all of them, at one point or another in their lives, have to do it in a laundromat. The dress code for these establishments is comfortingly proletarian; that slick guy who was wearing the tux and tails at the formal the other night is wearing the same kind of dumpy gray sweatpants and T-shirt as the mother in the corner who is unsuccessfully trying to keep her son from giving his little sister a ride in the dryer. Nobody has any pockets. The only medium of exchange that really matters is the quarter, and possibly laundry soap. Instead of papers all over the floor, there are dryer sheets. And everybody drives those wobbly metal laundry carts around, taking whichever one’s free, and leaving it wherever it is when they’re done. If everything worked the way a laundromat does, Communism would have taken over the world by now.

Now, I’m not particularly domestically inclined, but there’s something really comforting about folding up warm clothes, just out of the dryer, and sorting them into their categories. Pants go there, collared shirts there, T-shirts here, underwear there, socks…those that match…over here. And then everything into the basket, a big warm bundle you can carry home and feel really satisfied knowing it’s all done. Plus, it’s a little piece of the week that nobody can make you use for anything else, and which requires absolutely nothing more of you than a few basic motor skills — in other words, it’s the perfect time to think about whatever random thing has been on your mind, with absolutely no pressure or limitations.

And while it’s a great equalizer, doing laundry is also what lets us keep from being all the same — by spending one afternoon a week wearing inside-out sweatpants and the cleanest dirty shirt you could find atop the laundry sack, you can spend the rest of the week being whatever else it is you are in your daily life. Without it, we’d probably all end up in filthy unwashed rags after a few weeks, with nothing to distinguish one individual from another except knowledge of his or her name. Maybe that was okay in the 14th Century, but personally, I feel we all stand a little taller with clean clothes on.

(As evidence, I give finals time, when everyone’s spirit and pride are totally crushed. During finals, everyone — at least, everyone in college — looks as if it’s laundry day, except they do it for a whole week.)

Anyway, before I get any further afield, I think I should probably go and fold up the last two loads, which ought to be done by now. Just remember that, if you’re seeking wisdom, it can sometimes be found as easily at the bottom of the mountain as at the top. The guru is about three feet down, and a little to the left, just behind the pillowcases.

Filed by Michael at 14:05 under Personal, Philosophical
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