Remember dream jobs in elementary school? For many kids, it was astronaut or firefighter. For me, in the pre-internet era of fourth grade, my aspirations were a bit more… domestic. I wanted to be a “laundry lady.” Yes, you read that right. My ten-year-old self envisioned a life of washing, drying, and folding clothes with hospital-corner precision. Looking back, it sounds utterly bizarre, but childhood logic, especially for an only child like me, often operates on a different plane.
My parents worked a lot, leaving me to my own imaginative devices. One day I was the Queen of Sheba, the next, Lesley of the Laundromat. Lesley’s Laundromat was a bustling hub in my mind, complete with imaginary customers and endless pots of pretend coffee. My mother’s washing machine became my training ground, much to her later chagrin when she discovered a detergent receptacle overflowing with quarters. Let’s just say my entrepreneurial spirit resulted in more questions than profits, especially concerning my grasp on reality.
And dry cleaning? Oh, Lesley’s Laundromat offered that too. My innovative “steam cleaning” method involved draping my mother’s professional suits in the shower. Picture shoulder-padded pinstripe blazers, not exactly refreshed, but definitely… damp.
The school assignment, however, hit a snag. We were supposed to interview someone in our chosen profession. Our small town, boasting limited amenities (a general store doubling as a questionable video rental spot and a vet), lacked a professional “laundry lady” for me to grill. My dreams of interviewing a real-life Lesley were crushed, much like those quarters jamming up the detergent dispenser. Reluctantly, I had to choose a more conventional career path for my school project.
Fast forward thirty-odd years, and here I am, standing in the Wilton Laundromat. The fluorescent lights hummed, the machines spun with a rhythmic Spin Right Round Song of their own, and I found myself questioning ten-year-old me. What was I thinking?
This is hard work. There’s zero romance in lugging bags of dirty clothes, wrestling with industrial-sized machines, and the sheer volume of laundry. Anyone who diligently washes, dries, and folds other people’s garments, achieving those mythical hospital corners, deserves, if not royal treatment, at least a really good cup of coffee.
“I’m hitting up Starbucks,” I announced to ‘Laura’ of the Wilton Laundromat. “Need anything?” Decaffeination should be illegal, especially in this line of work. And for all you non-coffee drinkers, let me tell you, you’re missing out on a productivity hack. Embrace the addiction; join the rest of us in caffeine-fueled efficiency, leaving behind your herbal tea and heroic willpower.
Okay, maybe I have slight dependency issues. But eight loads of laundry on a Tuesday evening? That’s a universal crisis, right? This brings me to a familiar juncture in life. Maybe you’ve been there too – not necessarily in a laundromat, but in that place of laundry-induced surrender. You know, when you just give up on the washing machine that dispenses water like a leaky faucet and produces suds with the enthusiasm of a sloth. Your clothes emerge feeling less “freshly laundered” and more “salad dressing marinated.”
But you persevere, tossing them into the dryer, thinking, it can’t get worse. Famous last words. Because your dryer, in a feat of appliance rebellion, has apparently forgotten the existence of the ‘stop’ button. Unless you remember you’re drying delicates, that thing will keep tumbling for sixteen hours straight, turning your underwear into something resembling shrink-wrapped mysteries. Hypothetically speaking, of course. In our house, all appliances function perfectly, and we are, as always, completely satisfied renters. (That’s the official line, right?)
Hence, the laundromat pilgrimage. But perspective is key. There are worse things, I suppose. Like witnessing my two-year-old perform ‘the silent tantrum,’ a performance art piece involving dramatic floor-lying and rolling protests against being denied a third bowl of icescreamwithsprinklesandeminemies. Or enduring “Low” by T-Pain and Flo Rida on repeat until I considered launching Alexa into the salad-dressing-cycle washing machine. Newsflash: parenting is also a hard job.
Fine, I didn’t do it. But the urge was strong. Now, the scent of hot water mingling with Tide is my bourbon shot, a brief escape from the daily dramas. Like questioning my sanity for buying a lavender Lululemon crop top for my eleven-year-old, who wears it under a sweatshirt only to reveal what can only be described as an Aerosmith music video aesthetic the moment that time of the month arrives.
Or have you ever taken a two-year-old to the dentist? Some experiences leave scars. It’s a miracle the hygienist still possesses all her teeth. My son throws a punch with surprising force (toddlers: nature’s tiny terrors).
Coffee in hand, I return to ‘Laura’ at the Wilton Laundromat and then head home with eighty pounds of clean clothes, only to be greeted by a series of increasingly frantic voicemails:
“Um, hello??? Where are you??? My Lululemon top is missing, and I need it… like, now… as in, five minutes ago…”
“Are you kidding me? I seriously need it, and Dad said you went to the laundromat? Why would you do that? Is that even a real place? He’s messing with me. Call me back!”
“Mom… if you have my Lululemon top at that laundry place, I swear… I have nothing else to wear with my Lululemon shorts. And don’t even suggest a t-shirt because I can’t just wear any t-shirt. I need that top… the Lululemon one…”
The same top she recently baptized in pasta sauce. She’s eleven, living her best Aerosmith video life. These things happen. And really, in the grand spin right round of life, it all comes out in the wash… eventually, preferably at the laundromat.
Columnist Lesley Kirschner spent her childhood in quiet woods, sibling-free, cultivating hobbies like reading, writing, and conversing with inanimate objects. Her doll voice-overs were legendary, and her daytime TV consumption was impressive (Channels 3 and 8, antenna-dependent). A graduate of a forgettable college, she now resides in Wilton with her husband, Ambler Farm‘s Farmer Jonathan, and their three children. While still searching for her true calling beyond doll voices, she enjoys writing and appreciates the support of the Buy Nothing Wilton Facebook community. Lesley acknowledges she’s not winning a Pulitzer, so she’ll keep it brief. Silence, after all, is something she’s mastered.
