Laundry Day
From the archives: written by a girl who also loathed doing laundry
Anyone in my immediate life can attest to the unyielding fact that there is nothing I loathe more than doing my laundry. Surely, part of it comes from the obvious inconvenience of not owning a washer or dryer— or having one in my building— but something tells me I won’t be shaking my feelings on the act anytime soon.
Just about a year to date, I huddled over my laptop in the laundromat, experiencing the most existential writer’s block as I grappled with what to write for the beloved college personal statement. Naturally, I concluded that I tend to write best about things that I know exactly how to articulate with passion that only comes from the ability to feel.
Within 48 hours, I had quite easily crafted one of my favorite pieces of prose to date. It feels honest, and messy, and completely lacks sensibility— and I think that’s why I love it.
I want to share it now to honor how completely different my life looks from when I first sat down to write it, and to honor the one day a week I still can’t shake. I hope you enjoy.
Laundry Day
by Olivia Valley
Nothing in this world has ceased to fill me with as much contempt as the act of doing laundry. Approximately 8:00 AM each Saturday, I fill my Ikea bag to the brim with clothes and detergent, straining as I toss it over my shoulder. I walk two blocks East on 7th Ave, taking a breather outside of the smoke shop at the end of my block, peering into a glass wall of pipes, a new concept to my Wisconsin caliber. By the time I make it to Avenue A, I spend two hours in a plastic chair reading my book, optimistic that “dry clean only” has a couple of exceptions. I try not to classify myself as a failure as I move through the motions of attempting to acclimate to the life I chose, but I always find myself returning to the conclusion that my discomfort is a tangential roadblock.
My senior year of high school was characterized by sizable goals detained in rooms too small for their own good. Rooms filled with people who winced when I mentioned my favorite excerpt from the latest Metropolitan Diary, rooms surrounded by opportunities only achievable by cashing a check, and rooms where I felt seen but never heard. I felt existential dread each time I was asked where I would be going to college and knew that the girl at the top of her class with a passion for literature could surely never decide that college wasn’t her top priority after graduation. Each evening, I would come home teeming with desire to leave the routine I had, simultaneously switching my laundry– just down the stairs– in no more than twenty seconds.
Three fleeting months after walking the stage, I packed my bags and booked a one-way ticket to New York City, deviating from the pipeline of family members who have chosen Green Bay as home. I declined each college offer and decided that I needed 365 days to exist in a world where each room I entered would foster my personal growth, not just my intellect. I slowly began to see the world for what it could offer me and not just question what I should be offering it: seats on Broadway, halls of oil paintings, and rows of books, all surrounded by friends and neighbors that saw me merely as Olivia: daughter, nanny, writer, lover of Frank Sinatra, and coffee enthusiast.
Saturday rolls around again, and I can already hear the persistent hum of the dryer and debate throwing on day-old sweats. The smoke shop has a smashed-in window, and there are about six threads left on the handle of my Ikea bag. I may have outgrown my Midwest niceties, and I may feel the exhaustion of working occasional fifty-hour weeks, but how lucky am I to feel fulfilled in every other corner of my life? To understand that sacrifice is necessary for growth, to find my passion for liberal arts, and to learn that frustration caused by the mundanities of life is a blessing when it’s accompanied by self-discovery. By leaving behind a simple life and stepping into a new– and much more strenuous – one, I am able to take my losses as they come and admire my discomfort for how much perspective and space it’s given me. In the confines of this city, I see several years of room left for me: the kind I haven’t felt anywhere else.
With Love Always,
Olivia Jean