In college, it was a point of pride that I never brought home my dirty laundry.
First of all, it seemed like a giant hassle to cart back and forth a basket of clothes for a weekend visit. Most of all, however, I though that washing my own laundry was a tiny step toward adulthood.
I'm bringing this up now because I have pre-scheduled this post to publish just as I'm flying from Columbus to New York. And I'm fairly certain I'll be coming back with a suitcase full of clean clothes.
You see, I've spent the last six days in Ohio, splitting the time between my husband's family and my own. I didn't bring home any dirty laundry, but I certainly planned on utilizing my mom and dad's washer and dryer for the clothing I wore while I was there.
Have I regressed? I prefer to think I'm just practical. I think it's also a sign of just how much I hate laundromats. My daydreams don't involve winning the lottery or becoming famous. They're about having the space for my very own w/d again.
In our three years in New York, I've become accustomed to -- and even enjoy -- a lot of the quirks that make living in Brooklyn different than living in Ohio. Most weeks now I don't even mind carrying our groceries a few blocks home. But the lack of a washer and dryer -- that I cannot get used to. It is by far my least favorite thing about living in New York.
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