An additional, very personal vignette:
Once sophomore year began, and my biweekly treks home to wash my shirt and my pair of underwear had lost their exotic novelty, I moved from the dorms into a real live apartment. (Live, indeed. The floors vamoosed with alacrity when you surprised'm with the kitchen light. Vacuuming woulda been genocidal, if I'd'a done any.)
After exposing the bathtub by using, like, oven cleaner and flamb‚ed Engine Brite, I had a place to do my own laundry. Up until I married Gravid Girl I would do my laundry in the tub, by hand. Oy, my cuticles. Jeans were The Worst. Towels were a close second. (Linens fell under the topic of Spring Break, uhm Cleaning.) The total absence of curtains was palliated by a coupla sweaters slowly stiffening on hangers hanging (imagine that!) in the windowframe.
Now I am old and decadent. I own a Maytag, and some domestic chemicals therefor. I own more than one pair of underwear, and in a larger size. I also wash'm a lot more often, so a sort of cosmic balance is maintained. Spouse operates the appliance for fear that I might repeat the now-legendary Pink Skivvies debacle. |
