Laundry day (tomorrow)

My freshman roommate in college was a kid from one of the most exclusive prep schools in the nation, the scion of a family of not inconsiderate means. The amount of monthly allowance he received above and beyond expenses for books and board exceeded my entire personal budget for an entire semester, yet he managed to run through it all in the course of two or three blowout days whenever the check would come in.

Of all his boorish mannerisms, though, the one that bothered me the most was when, toward the end of each of the two semesters in which we were forced to live together, my roommate would waken in the morning, crawl through the near-darkness of the Jefferson dormitory basement rooms, and settle next to his overflowing laundry basket. Then he’d remove a pair of underwear from its depths, sniff it gingerly, and hold the increasing pile in his lap until he’d found a pair that, while not fresh, were at least not reeking. Then he’d proceed to wear it for another week. The actual process of laundering his clothing during the course of a semester was beyond him. In the autumn and again in January he arrived at school with a mass of dry-cleaned prepwear that would grow progressively more grungy and moldy as he used them week after week. Then at semester’s end, he’d haul home several bags of stinking clothing for his parents to take care of, one way or another.

It seems to me these days that my freshman roommate was a highly resourceful man.

I’d like to blame the fact that I have no clean clothing today on the fact that when I’m trying to finish up writing and revising a book, I’m highly blinkered and absent-minded about things like laundry, bill-paying, and bathing. The truth, however, is that while in college I might have fastidiously washed and ironed my things on a weekly basis, after a good twenty-eight years of taking care of myself I’m no longer as particular. I have enough boxer briefs and socks in my drawer that I can go for a few weeks without worrying about running out. Ironing? Pfeh. A t-shirt and a pair of jeans that aren’t actually caked with filth are good enough for the likes of me. When my basket of dirties gets full, my first instinct isn’t, My, I really should have a busy laundry day! No, it’s, I wonder if Target carries bigger laundry baskets?

On mornings like today, though, after weeks of neglecting my washperson duties, I find myself running my fingers along the bare bottoms of my dresser drawers and contemplating an outfit that consists of the only clean clothes I have left: an outsized caftan from my larger days, a pair of sweatpants with legs that stop mid-calf, an ancient jockstrap, and a pair of striped clown socks from 1993. And it seems to me and my nose that my college roommate had a pretty good thing going.

Not that it means I’ll actually do any laundry, mind you. I’ll spend time writing about it instead.