For years I've been sending my laundry out, like most New Yorkers. (Okay, maybe like some New Yorkers.) The laundromat on the corner is staffed by four or five different women, each of them with varying levels of English proficiency, but all of them excellent at doing the laundry and making it exactly like I like it. They are lovely people, and without them I would descend into one dark level of stink and ugly that I don't think anyone wants to witness.
I went today to pick up the laundry that I dropped off this morning, only to discover that the woman who had taken my rumpled bag from me this morning was busy stuffing some clothes into a washer at one end of the room. I don't mind, I just wait patiently by her desk until she returns. Then I noticed that someones clothes were rustled in one of those rolling carts, in mid-fold.
They were my clothes!!! The horror!! That yellow t-shirt, the blue one, the new underwear. It was all there. The evidence was staggering.
Now, obviously, I've been passing my clothes to these ladies since 2001. But I guess in the same way people don't want to know where their food comes from, I didn't really want to see my intimates spread out all over the place like that.
It was ridiculous, I realize--but I simply left without her seeing me. What a juvenile, dumb reaction. I'll go back later when they're finished. And when I can look her in the eye without shame and regret.