Revenge of the Washing Machine

I'm going camping this weekend. I am over-the-moon ecstatic. Or was. Until I realized the sleeping bags needed washing.

I only have a top-loading washer, which meant I had to find a laundromat (who knew it would be so difficult - there's not even one in my zip code!), lug the two sleeping bags into said laundromat, wash them in a large-capacity front load washer and "fluff" them (with a shoe - mom's secret way to "re-fluff" sleeping bags) in a commercial dryer (yes, the label really says "commercial dryer").

I went in, straight from work, task timed to the minute. I came out looking to all the laundromat like the biggest idiot on the planet. To be fair, the last time I set foot in a laundromat was three years ago, and it was only once. My ego is still bruised.

With complete confidence, I shoved one sleeping bag in the washer, appearing to all the world like I had done this a thousand times. After several minutes of casually appearing as if I were contemplating the eternities, I finally realized that the detergent goes in on TOP of the washer. I easily programmed the settings - extra-long wash, extra gentle cycle and extra "squeeze all the water out" time (the technical term escapes me).

The number 22 flashed up. Great! 22 minutes - much shorter than I anticipated. I spend several more minutes mastering my "contemplating the eternities" look before I finally decide there is no price posted, so I'll just shove quarters into the machine and see how many it takes.

One goes in. The number goes to 21. Odd. I put another in. The number falls to 20. This cannot be! I wrack all eight years of my Spanish education to ask the attendant how many quarters this thing takes (praying I am wrong). My memory fails me. Her English fails her. Finally, she conveys that the number 20 on the washer means it wants 20 more quarters.

TWENTY MORE? That brings the grand total to $5.50 for a load of wash. I only have $10 in quarters (well, only $8.50, since I forgot detergent and had to buy some - remember, it's been three years since the last excursion to a laundromat). I look around, desperate to see if anyone is noticing the fact I've been in the laundromat for 20 minutes and have yet to start the washer, which has been full for 19 of those minutes. I open the washer, contemplate the size and ... quickly shove the other sleeping bag in. After all, it says, "Washer does best when full." It's definitely full all right.

I then procede to close my eyes and shove 20 more quarters in. That is when the 37 shows up. As in 37 minutes until my most expensive batch of laundry ever is done.

I try to spend the time the sleeping bags are washing scoping out the dryer operation, without looking too obvious, but they're all full. I don't want to seem like the creepy chick who is stalking someone's laundry, so I settle down with my book.

37 minutes later, I manage to snag an open dryer. Desperate that it too will cost the GDP of a small, severely impoverished country, I shove both sleeping bags into the dryer from the outset. That is when I realize I forgot a sneaker (I was not about to use the dress shoes I had on as a substitute). Oh well. Then I notice there is no "fluff" (i.e. very low heat) cycle on the dryer. Ack! I cannot possibly lug two, slimy (and now very heavy) wet sleeping bags all the way home in the Hoopty Mobile to fluff at home.

Feeling sheepish, I shut the dryer door. Again, no sign of the cost. I put a quarter in. Nothing. I add another one. The same attendant comes over and says something I take to be 50 cents. Score one for Sara! She leaves. I again contemplate the eternities while I figure out how to set the dryer to the lowest setting it does have (I'm not stupid, really - I've been doing my laundry for 14+ years, I promise). The attendant points to a button that looks nothing like a button. I push it. Voila! The dryer starts.

10 minutes later, I take out the now clumpy (no sneaker for "fluffing" remember?) but only sort-of-damp sleeping bags out of the dryer and throw them over my shoulder. They completely bury me. That's when I remember that, somewhere below the blue damp mass, my car keys lie safely in my purse. I shift, balance the load on one shoulder and rummage in my unseen purse for the keys. The guy next to me raises his eyebrow. I smile ... and then I bolt out as fast as I can, hardly caring the strings on the sleeping bag are dragging behind me.

As I drove home, I decided the next time I want to wash my sleeping bags, I'll deposit the $12 (what it should have cost me, were I not so cheap I shoved everything in one washer and one dryer) into a jar. I figure that after enough instances of longing for a clean sleeping bag, I'll have enough money to buy my own front-loading washer.

Take that!

Postscript. My home dryer, while not commercial, has a "fluff" (air dry) cycle. Guess what is in there now with a sneaker? The other sleeping bag is hanging on my balcony, patiently waiting its turn to have its stuffing fluffed. My mother was right. The shoe makes a difference. And my "fluff" cycle is free.