Lately...

Things I haven't done in awhile:

1. Woken up twenty minutes before class and contemplated skipping, only to find myself sitting in my usual seat sixteen minutes later with my hideously knotted hair indiscreetly tucked under a faded black shirt that says "don't mind me - I'm with the band."

2. Wondered where on earth I would have gotten such a dumb shirt.

3. Said "screw it; I don't care," and worn sweatpants outside my apartment building, then glimpsed my reflection in a glass door and realized that the message I am sending to world is "I have given up." And then decided I didn't care, because, let's face it...I have. Given up, that is.

4. Been the only girl in a game of Truth or Dare with enough class not to traipse around in cheap lingerie.

5. Written "I am going to punch that kid in the face" in my notebook, then turned the notebook at a forty-five degree angle in order to share this profoundly empty threat with the person next to me.

6. Become so thoroughly obliterated that I found myself puking...in a bar...at five a.m; subsequently been forced to endure endless ribbing from my parents, who also made a point of thanking the bartender who had been working that night for ensuring I lived to see another day.

7. Made a fake Facebook friend. (Seriously, four of my friends are not real people.)

8. Twisted around in my seat to ask the guy behind me if would "just shut up," then stared him down fearlessly when he told me to "turn around. Right now. Turn around and don't even look at me."

9. Gotten an A for Making Shit Up.

10. Generally embraced the role of Cranky, Stressed-Out College Student Who Is Probably a Little Irritating to the Rest of the World.


But here's something stupid!

I was shuffling to the laundry room on my floor to move my clothes from the washer to the dryer. Because I am OCD, I knew that my clothes could not have been ready for more than three minutes; thus, I was not one of those obnoxious people who leaves their clothes in the washer hours after they've finished, rendering them a congealed, soapy mass of icky.

When I got to the laundry room, though, there was a guy already there. The washer was running and there was a pile of clothes on top of it, leading me to the reasonable conclusion that this guy was one of those assholes who doesn't give you five minutes to remove your clothes before he takes it upon himself to contaminate your freshly laundered underwear with his hands.

Only he wasn't one of those guys. He was one of those guys who pours detergent onto the clothes already in the washer - the clothes that are not actually his - pays the machine a dollar, and starts a new cycle. I'm sure you know the type.

When I turned to him and asked, "weren't there some clothes in the washer there?" he looked confused, then opened the washer (luckily it was a top-loader), stared at the clothes inside, and went "oh. Are these your clothes?"

"Yeah, that'd be them."

"I'm...sorry."

"S'okay." I reached into the washer and started lifting out of my clothes, which were dripping wet and covered in soap scum. Naturally he stood and watched, and naturally, this particular load of laundry included all of my cutest underwear. And of course I was wearing a white t-shirt with no bra, and of course I had put my hair up, so I couldn't just flip it in front to cover my dampened shirt. Of course.

He offered to pay for the cost of drying my clothes but I told him not to worry about it. I went back to my apartment, unpaused Pride and Prejudice, and picked up the washcloth I'd been knitting. I thought of happier times, when womens' underwear was something to be imagined but never seen; when you didn't have to sacrifice four quarters just to have your sweatshop-produced clothing swirl for half an hour in cold water.

And then I made myself some waffles. Waffles cure all ills.