A Trip to the Laundromat

A bizarre title to start a new musing on food, ay?

Laundry on Sunday morning. It affords me a cup of coffee and some peace and quiet. An even more bit of bizarre, I admit. But there is something about being in the midst of the noise of the outside world that allows me to disassociate myself, remove myself, focus myself in ways that I cannot do in the comfort of home where I feel the strain of the surrounding four walls, the unused kitchen, the clogged bathroom sink (again!), and run on sentences. (And it affords me random thoughts like how I really need to look at my kitchen like a classroom. So many ideas out of that one!).

Laundry on Sunday morning allows me something else. Well, laundry on any morning but this particular morning being a Sunday means I personify all mornings with the name Sunday. Good morning Friend! The coffee. Two dollars. Actually a little less but the change extends itself to the homeless man outside of the Dunkin Donuts. Being the least I can do for the man who opens the door and who greets me with a cheery good morning regardless of whether my feet take me through his door or down the subway steps. My constant morning companion to an otherwise quietly expressed good morning.

The large windows, available washers standing by, and the open bench gift me this luxury. A place to insert myself and write. Each trip here different. Some mornings I write. Others I sit back and read the stories of the people walking by, or flip through the pages of the magazines I have not touched, highlighting recipes to try or alter, or dream of trips to Morocco, Kerala, Puerto Rico, my beloved Madrid, the unseen Paris, the unexplored United States.

This morning I write. My words filling the blank pages. I plan to put the pen away. Tuck her back into the wilds of the the bag where she will lose herself among my ipod, laundry detergent, and free laundry sheets. When inspiration returns I'll juggle and maneuver to greet her and to give me voice.