Humans have a tendency to expect the best and are typically unprepared for the worst. For me, the best is unattainable, and the worst … well, those are the routine things I hate and go out of my way to avoid. As a rule, I don’t give much thought to routine activities. And I am in a league of my own when it comes to the fine arts of minimization, procrastination, rationalization … or anything else with “tination” or “ization” suffixes. Even in the process of writing, it doesn’t take long for my true colors to emerge. The second sentence of this paragraph is a fine example. That statement falls somewhere between minimization and outright lying – I don’t give any thought whatsoever to routine things; 90 percent of the time I forget them anyway, so I figure, why bother to think about them at all?
The laundry business is another problem area. Don’t jump to conclusions here; I do not wear soiled clothing, but I will purchase things like socks, for instance, that enable me to delay the inevitable horror of the laundromat. I haven’t done it yet, but I think I’m capable of stealing socks if the circumstances dictated; not from a store, but maybe from your drawer if I knew you. What does that say about me? Am I a sociopath? No, I don’t think so. I suffer from a mental illness called PTSD (Pre-Traumatic Stress Disorder). I have sought therapy and medication for this, but the illness is not recognized by the psychiatric profession. It should be. I’ll bet there are millions of sufferers, and a lot of them hang out at laundromats. I am certain of this because when I do make my semi-annual visits, I invariably return home with two or three unmatched socks.
Second only to Iraq, the laundromat is the most horrifying place on the planet. I have endured legitimate traumas in laundromats. Everything about them is complicated and frustrating. The little soap boxes never slide out far enough to grab hold of them, so you have to get the laundromat lady to reach inside with a clothes hanger to get it. There are numerous tricks that must be employed to start the washing machine, like slamming your fist into the handle, and there is never enough space to fold your clothing. I always manage to get the dryer that blows lukewarm air, so by the time I am done drying, I don’t bother to fold my clothes. Besides, isn’t that why we have irons? Not that you’d ever catch me using one – I simply stuff everything into drawers, except pants and shirts, which I press underneath my mattress.
As far as “remembering” is concerned, I’d say this is my most problematic area. I forget everything, even the notes I write to remind myself of things I need to do. I can’t remember more than 3 percent of the things I have forgotten, and I consistently forget to remember the things I might forget. In spite of this, I still remember my name, address and telephone number; I remember to pay my bills, though I forget to pay them on time, and I remember exactly where I got my last haircut. At a friend’s advice, I went to one of those schools that teach people how to cut hair.
“You gotta’ try it,” he said. “They do a great job and it’s $4.”
“Four dollars? That’s ridiculous. I wouldn’t do it for less than $15. You’re telling me you volunteered for a lousy $4?”
“No, idiot, you pay them. Where else can you get a haircut for $4?” He had a point, so I tried it. Things seemed to be going well, and I began to think this was actually a smart idea. After all, how badly can anybody mess up a haircut? The girl working on me couldn’t have been more than 17, but she cut with confidence, as if she had done it a thousand times. I was beginning to think this might be one of my best haircuts ever, when she stopped suddenly, and in a tone I can only describe as sheer terror, said, “Oh my God!”
I broke out in a cold sweat. She turned my chair away from the mirror and ran off to get her “teacher,” so I couldn’t see whatever it was she did.
A minute later, she returned with the “teacher,” a girl who might have been 19. I knew then that I was in serious trouble. This one gasped and ran off to get the supervisor, who moaned and ran off to get the “head” which was appropriate since I no longer had one.
“Oh, thet’s net so bed,” the head said, (I felt like I was stuck in a Dr. Seuss story), “jest mek a peart and then steart layrin’ the peart beneath the paert; here, I’ll shew ya’ ha’ ta’ steart.”
I left with a wing from an A-4 Phantom jet on the left side of my head. I felt cheated. I had an upcoming trip to Seattle planned. If she had left the wings on both sides of my head, I could have flown there myself.