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.
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