On washers

My washer is a bitch.

Who serves who in this relationship?

It dings — and my watch, my phone and my TV beeps with a notification. Cycle complete.

No, it doesn’t ding, it sings. It plays a tune like it was paid to do so.

It plays a tune so long I feel like it’s bragging and humiliating those of us that can’t play the piano like Beethoven.

It plays the tune so joyfully that I go through an entire emotional roller coaster before it finishes.

I am alert. What’s happening? I get excited. My washing is done. Clean clothes await. I have to go and move them or hang to dry. Clothes I’ll forget in a minute probably. It was my responsibility. It’s too much. I get scared. I am disappointed in myself. This happens so often. I don’t mean to, but I do. I just forget. And with a cold sweat that comes twenty minutes after midnight I get up from the sofa and remember. I forgot the fucking laundry. Damn.

Maybe tomorrow.