34.

Laundromats

I hate laundromats, but I want so badly to like them. There is something appealing, in theory, about going to the laundromat by myself—some sense of liberation when I enter and accomplishment when I leave. And there’s the hope that my lack of homestead stability might feel a little hip, because in the movies laundromats are often very hip. Irresistibly attractive, mildly rebellious characters steal stuff from them; young single people have interesting conversations in them; the main character sits near the full wall window during a melancholy moment, looking out while music plays and clothes tumble noiselessly in the background. The laundromats in my head are New York City cool, but in real-life Tuscon they are very sad places to be. My sassy-single attitude fades quickly into sad-and-alone as I sit on a bench chained to the wall in two places.

I keep going back to the “Suds for Your Duds” laundromat because I honestly can’t believe that a place called “Suds for Your Duds” could be as depressing as it is. But laundromats are spaces that demand honesty. Standing in an open room that is every shade of beige, folding our underwear, there is simply nowhere to hide. Looking at the people around me, my sad-and-alone fades quickly into thankful and a bit ashamed.

At Suds for Your Duds, every dryer is named after a different flower. Johnny Jump-ups, aloe, alyssum, hibiscus, lotus, wisteria, pansy, fushia, clematis, azalea, peony, gardenia, germanium, magnolia, heather, honeysuckle. My clothes are being dried by “Camilla,” “Dahlia,” and “Gladiolus.” I wish I’d gotten gardenia. I didn’t realize it was important to me until now. When my clothes are dry, I will leave with two heavy, warm baskets and, as I crawl into bed, I will make a loud aaaaaaahhhhhhhh noise, breathing deeply through my nose. I’ll fall asleep and try not to think about laundromats.