I washed the equivalent of 16 loads of laundry tonight at the local wash hop. 2+ hours of my life that will I can never get back. That’s not including carrying it all back upstairs to the bed, folding it and putting it all away. I overheard the most adorable two little Hispanic girls laughing with their daddy. I was witness to a phone conversation that an intoxicated woman was having with, I can only deduce, her lover, about meeting her there and they would lock themselves in the bathroom together to have a warm place to sleep. I was told rather bluntly by a large bottomed woman that I could not use the dryer because it was for her. This initially got under my skin and I had a terrible time letting it go. Eventually I was able to see she was in a smaller boat than I with her mountains of laundry and let it pass through me. I type all of this not to bore you all with my laundromat experience, but because I laughed at myself tonight and appreciated myself a little more. You see, I have a strange OCD like ritual at the laundromat. When my clothes are finished washing I remove everything and then spin the drum of the over sized washing machine to make sure the laundry gnomes have not stolen a sock or anything else. This ritual has never proven fruitful. There was always an empty drum. And I always laughed at myself for doing it. Every. Time. But tonight, lo and behold, my absolute favourite flannel was clinging to the top of the drum and I was able to bring her safely to the dryer with all of her beloved friends. She now hangs silently in the closet, patiently awaiting tomorrow morning when we get to hold each others arms once again. So here’s to being a little crazy. Sometimes it pays off. The End.