High and Dry
Out to dry: Locals in actuality know how to capture the authentic spring meadow laundry spoor.
File this under things I miss from living quarters: the dryer. Though my place comes equipped with a washer, its finery buddy Mr. Dryer is nowhere to be found. That’s like peanut butter without the jelly, or a hot dog without the bun, or an instalment of American Idol without the blatant product placement. A dryer is the synopsis of a you-don’t-know-what-you-got-till-it’s-gone thing. You really don’t realize how many socks you would rather until you have to spend fifteen minutes laying each one out on the drying holder. Sometimes I question whether I want to wash something based on the act that I will eventually have to spend yet pinning it up later. Also, if you hang your clothes and you accidentally ignore to collect them promptly a few hours later, you can be stable that they will have become unmoving and snooty, a little like Paula Abdul’s visage. Basically you end up wearing clothes that are one step removed from colored cardboard. And oi vey, don’t get me starting on the chafing. Textile softener is futile and the fresh-out-of-the-dryer smell non-existent, but looking on the aglow side, at least you don’t have to clean out the lint beguile anymore.
Related Listening: “Hang Me Up To Dry” - Hyperboreal War Kids
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