by Katie Hufnagel, SUNY Cortland
Posted in on Sunday, May 4
Some people would say my room is a mess, but I like to have a nice big pile of laundry in front of my closet at all times. Sometimes I dive right into it from my bed, like a seal sliding along the edge of a pool on her belly, and I bury myself in it, absorbing every piece of clothing, every smell, cuddling with the random sneakers I find hidden within. I find this to be one of the most comforting activities possible, and believe the essence of one’s own life can be found in her dirty clothes pile.
That’s the main reason I so rarely go to the laundromat. Of course, in part it’s because our apartment building is surrounded by crackhouses and I’m scared of the freaks who might be creeping behind the detergent dispenser in there, but mostly it’s because I don’t find much need for clean clothes. Even if my mom washes them at home and folds them up real neatly, I know that at some point the basket they were lovingly placed in will be overturned and even what was fresh & crispy will be flung to freedom onto my floor.
My favorite part is how everything smells different; there isn’t a uniform freshly-laundered smell – no overwhelming scent of fabric-softener sheets or soap. Each piece has a personality all its own, like it’s absorbed a tiny part of life into its fibers each time it’s been worn and never quite entirely gotten rid of anything in the washing machine. I probably notice all this more than other people because my clothes (especially my T-shirts) are all seriously old – to the point where normal people would have thrown them out about 15 years ago. I take everyone’s old wardrobes when they’re ready to donate them or abandon them on the side of the road: my friends empty their dresser drawers into to bags and hand them to me; I raid my dad’s closet in search of rare finds from decades ago; my brother launches anything he’s sick of through my bedroom door when I’m not looking. As a result, my clothes not only have the character of where I’ve been and what I’ve done, but also that of countless other people. Who knows who borrowed this baseball jersey before my cousin was finished with it – who knows who they wrestled in it, or what meadow they leapt through catching butterflies, or how hard their friends laughed when they spilled on it (and what exactly is that spill – gasoline? oil from a salami sandwich? turpentine?). If I really sniff it deeply, inhale the very fabric of the shirt, I can pick up on a campfire – maybe if it had been washed just one time less, I’d get a whiff of burnt marshmallows or Jiffy Pop or muddy golashes.
My pile here tells a load of stories just by looking at it: I have perfectly good shots covered in paint from outdoor splattering sessions, hoodies full of animal fur & burrs from napping with my cats, jeans lined with chalk dust from leaning up against a blackboard, even shirts stuck with confetti reminiscent of surprise parties & glittering late nights. I think it’s beautiful, and just can’t bring myself to do a load of wash.
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