I walked into the dingy laundromat last week to get our comforter washed.  Dingy is how I would describe every laundromat I have ever been in.

The music playing was nice, something Caribbean, merengue maybe? As I scanned the room for the counter I wondered casually what everyone’s story was.  Why don’t they own a washer and dryer?  I don’t judge.  There was a time when I was a young mother using the laundromat.

As I got to the desk, there was a young guy who asked me how he could help.  I gave him my comforter and waited as he wrote out the ticket.  We chatted about the weather, the fact that it was Friday, etc.  He took my money and I left.

As I walked through all the machines I reflected how much my life had changed.  I had my own washer and dryer now.  I had arrived.

I went through the doors to my car.  As I reached for my keys I noticed the music was still playing.  I felt for my phone.  The merengue music had been blasting from my purse all along.

Oh, yes, I had arrived alright. To where I’m not sure.