Laundromat Chronicles - Three

b97867cf96ef4e85292e_Black_man_doing_laundry.jpg
b97867cf96ef4e85292e_Black_man_doing_laundry.jpg

 

He was tall, very tall, with the bone structure of a Native American and skin the color of a fresh, new chestnut right after you pop it out of its ugly green shell.  And just as smooth.  I watched him for ten minutes, until some old woman, probably my age, starting gabbing at me.  Bitch!  Couldn’t she see I was busy staring?  Some people!

Not only was this guy drop-dead gorgeous, but he could fold laundry.  Seriously.  His clothes were stacked up in perfect piles, with not one odd piece sticking out anywhere, not even on the fitted sheets!  And good looking.  Did I say that already? He should be a folding trainer for department stores.  And a model.

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Saturday, October 25, 2014

 

Today I am grateful for the third of the Laundromat Chronicles.  I saw the most amazing man at the Laundromat.  No he wasn’t almost naked like the guy in this picture. . .I wish. . .but he was gorgeous.  This was the best picture I could find and it is lacking on a lot of levels.  All you single women out there stop hanging out at the bars and get to the Laundromat. . .on the weekend!  I’m serious!

 

 

 

He was tall, very tall, with the bone structure of a Native American and skin the color of a fresh, new chestnut right after you pop it out of its ugly green shell.  And just as smooth.  I watched him for ten minutes, until some old woman, probably my age, starting gabbing at me.  Bitch!  Couldn’t she see I was busy staring?  Some people!

 

 

 

Not only was this guy drop-dead gorgeous, but he could fold laundry.  Seriously.  His clothes were stacked up in perfect piles, with not one odd piece sticking out anywhere, not even on the fitted sheets!  And good looking.  Did I say that already? He should be a folding trainer for department stores.  And a model.

 

 

 

The nice thing about being crazy. . .er, creative. . .is that you’re never bored.  My pea-brain twisted a nice little fantasy about him.  Probably a marine.  Only a marine would fold clothes with that much precision. Do I see a small stain on his shirt?  An officer for sure.  Or a surgeon.  Yeah, that’s it, those long tapered fingers and huge hands (J) save lives. He should really wash that shirt. And maybe he has a wife and children.  No, I don’t want him married. He’s not married because he’s dedicated to his work.  Maybe he’ll take his shirt off.   Is he gay?  No.  He could be, but I reject that possibility.  I bet he looks like Michael Strayhan without his shirt.  Nice haircut, too.   Doesn’t he see that little spot on his shirt?  C’mon, buddy!  No, he’s definitely straight and he’s at the Laundromat because his washer died, too and he wants to commiserate (that’s what they call it when you’re old) with a very nice, somewhat funny, more-than-pudgy, very white woman who. . .” 

 

 

 

“What!?”  I’m jerked out of my reverie by a poke on my arm.

 

 

 

“I said. . .” she was jabbing me with her long, bony, arthritic finger.  “Do you know how to start this thing?” It was the older woman who was my age, who had apparently been talking to me.  Who knew?   “I can’t start this thing.  I used to know how to do this when you put quarters in but now they have these stupid cards and I don’t know how to do it and I don’t know if this jacket can be washed because I left my glasses at my sister’s house and I see you have yours hanging on your shirt, so can you read this label for me, please and help me start this washer?”  Her bridge work clicked when she talked.

 

 

 

Poof!  My fantasy collapses like Lot’s wife.  Oh well, at least I had it for a while.  What can possibly be next in the Laundromat Chronicles?

 

The nice thing about being crazy. . .er, creative. . .is that you’re never bored.  My pea-brain twisted a nice little fantasy about him.  Probably a marine.  Only a marine would fold clothes with that much precision. Do I see a small stain on his shirt?  An officer for sure.  Or a surgeon.  Yeah, that’s it, those long tapered fingers and huge hands () save lives. He should really wash that shirt. And maybe he has a wife and children.  No, I don’t want him married. He’s not married because he’s dedicated to his work.  Maybe he’ll take his shirt off.   Is he gay?  No.  He could be, but I reject that possibility.  I bet he looks like Michael Strayhan without his shirt.  Nice haircut, too.   Doesn’t he see that little spot on his shirt?  C’mon, buddy!  No, he’s definitely straight and he’s at the Laundromat because his washer died, too and he wants to commiserate (that’s what they call it when you’re old) with a very nice, somewhat funny, more-than-pudgy, very white woman who. . .” 

“What!?”  I’m jerked out of my reverie by a poke on my arm.

“I said. . .” she was jabbing me with her long, bony, arthritic finger.  “Do you know how to start this thing?” It was the older woman who was my age, who had apparently been talking to me.  Who knew?   “I can’t start this thing.  I used to know how to do this when you put quarters in but now they have these stupid cards and I don’t know how to do it and I don’t know if this jacket can be washed because I left my glasses at my sister’s house and I see you have yours hanging on your shirt, so can you read this label for me, please and help me start this washer?”  Her bridge work clicked when she talked.

Poof!  My fantasy collapses like Lot’s wife.  Oh well, at least I had it for a while.  What can possibly be next in the Laundromat Chronicles?
 

Each and every day I find something to be grateful for. My gratitude's are heartfelt, personal, moving and often humorous. Facebook followers have encouraged me to branch out. I hope you will relate.

The opinions expressed herein are the writer's alone, and do not reflect the opinions of TAPinto.net or anyone who works for TAPinto.net. TAPinto.net is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the writer.

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