lid-banging laundry woes

Grant me patience, Lord, but hurry.

I once read that on a wall in a bathroom, I think, and grinned. It was straightforward and oh-so-true. We often tell ourselves that we want to be more patient or that we just want to slow down the often warp speed pace in which we function—but it’s hard. Schedules, children, work deadlines, errands, dinner plans—it’s impossible to cram everything into 24 hours, no matter how much you budget your time. Time? What time? These things should’ve been checked off yesterday. Waiting means getting even more behind. It’s not an option.

So what happens when you’re down to three pairs of pants that you hate, two mismatched socks, and one pair of granny panties? Well, you grudgingly head downstairs to the community washer and dryer with hopes that someone else isn’t ahead of you.

There are six to eight units in my apartment building. I’m the new kid on the block, so I’m not exactly sure of the number, and I definitely don’t know my neighbors by name. But I do know that not all of the units are occupied; therefore doing laundry should be a simple task. Less people equal fewer loads. Fewer loads equal less waiting. Hallelujah.

Tuesday night I grabbed my borderline erupting green hamper of dirty clothes and made the downstairs trek to the creepy basement. I didn’t hear the siiiish, siiiish, siiiish of the washer or the ga-dump, ga-dump, ga-dump of the dryer so I figured I was in the clear.

Nope.

After setting down my 400-pound hamper and carefully opening the metal washer lid, I saw the culprits: XXL man bloomers. Soggy and all twisted around the center spinny thing, the XXL man bloomers, man shirts, and man jeans stared back at me. Ha ha! You have to wait, they taunted. Mother effer, I thought, and rolled my eyes. I picked up my massive load and hiked back upstairs, being sure, however, to first slam the lid down (with hopes that The Man Who Needs to Hurry Up would hear).

I decided to make dinner … surfed Facebook … and watched a little TV. Two hours went by. His laundry had to have been done by then. So, I heave-hoed my bin back down the stairs to the basement. Again, no siiish or ga-dump so I thought it was finally my turn. I opened the lid … Sucka! the XXL man bloomers hissed. You’ve gotta be freakin’ kidding me, I thought. I slammed the lid – hard and twice – and went back upstairs again.

OK, so technically I could’ve just gone to a Laundromat if it was that big of a deal. However, this was my new apartment. One of the perks was not having to go to a Laundromat anymore. I was going to take advantage of this perk to its fullest. I wasn’t leaving.

Ten o’clock rolled around. Surely his clothes are done now, I thought. It was too late to start my simple load – because I was courteous to my neighbors – but I wanted to check, just for the heck of it. And just because this waiting process was driving me completely insane. I padded downstairs and quietly opened the lid. They. Were. Still. There. Ugh!

Fast forward to Wednesday. Still there. Thursday. Still there. Friday. Still there!

I don’t know if this guy ran out of quarters mid-cycle or if he’s trying to go the organic, alternative route of drying (with added mold growth to boot), but c’mon people. My boyfriend says I should call the cops or the landlord to make sure The Man Who Needs to Hurry Up isn’t dead. I think he’s just fine, alive and kicking -- although not in his heinous undies. Seriously? Three days of leaving your clothes in the washing machine? The XXL man bloomers are daring me to pick the stuff out with tongs but I refuse.

What would YOU do in this situation? I understand that sometimes people forget and that we sometimes need to be more patient with some than others but three days? Three days!? And of course he’s going to see the mini broccoli trees sprouting up all over his stuff so he’s going to have to wash them again …

Grant me patience, Lord, but hurry.