(Studwinklus gnarli sp.) WMPL. A master stroke.
Alex, you perhaps over-extrapolate. Upon my arrival at Baylor (correctly enunciated as Byel'r) University in Waco, Texas, I was bemused to find that the men's freshman dormitory (Penland, aka "Zoo II") was equipped with two hundred rooms and only two washing machines. While the women's dorm, of the same size, was equipped with twenty.
Having come to Baylor directly from living in Air Force barracks, where a surfeit of foul-smelling clothes in one's room was a punishable offence, I marveled at this disparity. 'Twas then I discovered a Texas ritual the like of which I have not elsewhere seen.
It seems most Texans of college age tend to stay in Texas. Most of them within a leisurely Friday afternoon drive of the homestead. My first Friday there, virtually the entire dormitory emptied out en masse, accompanied by bales upon noisome bales of decidedly overripe underwear, socks, T-shirts, chinos and what have you, destined for the anxiously awaiting Whirlpools of hundreds of empty-nested mothers within a three hour radius of ground zero. I wondered how said homeward-wending frosh could survive this drive with its attendant effluvium at such close quarters. My understanding was that this ritual is pretty much exclusively the province of freshman males; freshman females do not seem to be permitted to do this.
On Sunday night, the entire caboodle of Trans-Ams, Mustangs and Camaros vroomed back into the parking lot, offloading cartons and bags of pristine, fabric-softened, delicately lemon-scented, perfectly folded, ironed and hangered wardrobes.
I understood from some of my friends that this phenomenon lasts for around six months, after which the palliative effect of doing Junior's laundry appears to mysteriously dissipate for the majority of empty-nest moms. |
