Know thy neighbor
My laundry cycles are determined by how long I can go before running out of clean underwear. After the official, full coverage undie rotation things get dire and I turn to either option a) emergency granny panties, b) emergency thongs. Thankfully, I made it home early enough tonight, on the last day of my rotation, to do a load of laundry.
Tonight, in the laundry room in the basement, I noticed a black thong tacked to the announcement board, right next to the “reliable mom cleaners” advertisement, above the sign for the paper towel contribution cup.
Here’s the thing. In a normal building with normal tenants, an anonymous black thong is… well, humorous at best. But my building is different. Inhabited by an over-75 crowd, sprinkled with younger folks who found a quiet, affordable location in the burbs, I know to an alarming level of certainty who that thong belongs to which for some reason kind of weirds me out. Not that I’m an underwear prude, but it’s kind of a weird, intimate breach of neighbor-code.
Incidentally, I also learned that if you see something white stuck to the side of the dryer – it’s not a… well, it’s fucking panty liner. What did I myself into?
This is the first time I’ve shared a laundry room since college. Should I be prepared for anything as awesomely awkward as this?