My Laundry Haven

Behind me, as I sit at the wooden counter by the window, a big machine is on spin. In a few minutes it will slow to a stop. Someone will walk through the door, grab a wheeled metal cart, and retrieve their wet things, slide it over to an industrial size dryer, and pile in their wash, setting off a gentle consistent whir, almost imperceptible as white noise.

I get up to tend to my machine, and return to my perch, sipping a latte I picked up from the Starbucks down the street, and watching the cars come and go in the parking lot, a sparkling white Tesla over there, next to a Jeep; my ancient Honda Civic (dwarfed by the SUVs) it's once atomic blue hue now peeling sunburned skin.

Listening to the water swoosh in the machines is soothing like elevator music, a reassuring welcome that the task I’ve come to complete will be done in a set time. A creature of habit, I choose the same washer and dryer every time; I've tapped them as mine – even though they are not. This is my Zen palace, where I can meditate to the ohm of laundry, a chime zing when it's done. The Cheers bar where everybody know your name – or your towels – but I don't have to talk to anyone. A beautiful launderette cafe, but without the barista. Plus, it’s quieter here than at a coffee place buzzing with after school teens, or crowded with full tables, laptops-a-typing. There’s wifi here, too.

I am at peace for the hour and a half it takes to wash and dry, removed from the toxic environment I'm trapped in at the house, where sneaking in a load of wash when everyone else is finished, makes doing laundry a waiting game and an unnecessary stressor. I fold up my t-shirts, long sleeved tops, the cargo tights I wear to work, my thoughts inward. We are all focused on our own chore, my laundry compatriots – the Wednesday or Saturday regulars, who I don’t know, or even exchange a nod with. There’s a young girl with earbuds, a gray-haired women in a Santa Sweater, a stern-faced, crew-cut prison attendant with aviator glasses (his suspenders holding up his pants announce his role or perhaps they are standard issue?) who strides purposefully to collect his load from the dryer. The silver-haired lady-of-a-certain (but hard to guess which) age, with her hair pulled back in a clip, refolding a mismatched pair of blue and green socks over and over until she had them aligned, only pausing in-between to check her phone. The Swiss Family Robinson (party of 3), carting in boatloads (dressed in knee-length pink khaki shorts, and deck shoes in the middle of the California winter), as if they truly did clean out their boat. The Mr. Mom-Dad and his little girl, who swirls around on the high stools by the counter, playing video games, while her father reads aloud the signs on the door for her entertainment (closed on Monday for the holiday).

I had seen this Groundhog Day-timing (the movie, not the holiday) phenomenon before on the running trail, or on my routes through local streets, and I attributed it to proximity. These people lived nearby, and the path was convenient. No matter what time I started out, I'd see the 80-somethimg year old twins chattering side by side, sharing secrets like schoolgirls. Every week I see the same odd lot doing their laundry, at it again in this shared routine.

I can't seem to get away from those challenges that plague me. I haven't found a solution.

But I have clarity without the noise here at my little laundry haven.