I have two loads of wash. Whites...and scrubs. I have enough scrubs that they get their own load. That, and I never know what's on said scrubs...VRE, MRSA, E-coli, etc.
So, I lug the basket across the apartment complex to the little laundry hut. Some old woman wearing no bra (and she had no business running around without one, if you get my meaning) has claimed monopoly on almost all the washers and dryers in the building. There's at least 20 of each.
I'm reduced to the washer and dryer that sounds a lot like the very first car I owned.
I just keep remembering that I'm in the final stretch of laundromat subjection. Soon, I will have a set of my very own. My own washer and dryer that only I will use. No more will I have to use public washer, wondering just what was in it before I came along. (Which reminds me of the story my cousin told me about the time her and her husband shagged in a laundromat during late hours. ~shudder~) No more will I have to take a gamble on a dryer, wondering if it's going to actually get my clothes dry, or just toss them around still wet.
Apartment life sucks.