The other day, I went to the laundromat.
I hate going to the laundromat. It's not even a big deal; the one near me is air conditioned, equipped with wifi, affordable, open 24 hours, and only a block away. But laundry is an official chore. My schedule generally has room for one day off work for avoiding real life, and one day off when I absolutely have to do my laundry because I won't have another chance for half a week.
Last Friday was that day. After the usual morning of sitting around in my underwear reading the internet and attempting to understand the appeal of the Olympics, I told myself I'd do laundry at 3. So naturally at 1:30 I ordered thai food, sat around, watched Alice In Wonderland on YouTube (there was a mushroom in my soup that looked like a cartoon mushroom... you don't understand, like once you see this mushroom, you have to watch a cartoon Disney film that deals with mushrooms, and the options in that category are limited), paused it for long chunks of time to watch other videos of roller coasters, and pretended I was going to get writing done before finally kicking my own ass out after 5.
What was that movie where people fell in love at a laundromat? Seven Days And Seven Nights*? It was one of those movies that no one cares about, so Comedy Central would air it during the middle of the afternoon on weekdays where it would continue to never be watched. I've never sat through the entire thing but I've definitely read Friends fan fiction based on it. Ross and Rachel met in a laundromat, had inexplicable chemistry, and then fucked a lot. This is generally the use of fan fiction: heedless, constant sex. As a Have Not, I appreciate this function. It certainly brightens one's day to read about unfamiliar experiences (this is a very sad paragraph).
I don't think it's necessary to explain that I do not ever stumble into Meet Cutes at the laundromat. Ever.
Where are all the cute, artsy Astoria boys in glasses who like comedy and want to ask me out to the beer garden? Or is that a thing I made up in my head? Because every time I go to the laundromat, it's just me, the silent, always judging Asian owners, and some random Austrian or Indian family with a million young children who treat the laundromat like their own personal obstacle course. I don't understand why, when there are three large plastic tables and I'm the only person sitting at any of the tables, suddenly two mechanics and their little ginger sons need to sit down to fix the Pac Man machine and impart drill-bit related wisdom NOT ONLY AT MY TABLE BUT ON THE BENCH I AM ON. With no apology for the noise.
I went to sit on a stool next to my washing machine in silent protest, which probably just made me look like a pathetic child. Really, it was the perfect opportunity for some cute boy to set down his whites on the nearby counter and look at me in curiosity, because in my imagination everything I do is impeccably endearing and my outfit of ratty leggings and an already-worn-this-week tank top is super sexy, and my hair in a sweaty bun is just like, irresistible. Our eyes would meet and we would look away, blushing, several times until whomever leaves first asks the other their name. We would then meet again, next laundry day, like some sort of fucking serendipity that means we definitely need to go home and take off our pants.
Instead, I realized I forgot to bring any of my pants that needed washing.
All the pants I am wearing this week haven't been washed for two or three weeks.
And I wonder why I don't have any Meet Cutes.
*An internet mcsasspants sassed me. It's 40 Days and 40 Nights. EXCUSE ME, NUMBERS ARE HARD.