An Ode to the College Laundry Room

Written by Edith Manfred. Graphic by Edith Manfred.

There’s nothing quite like the laundry room of an upperclassmen dorm.

Defined by environmental textures – detergent on the floor, flickering lights, dust bunnies, the strange scent of body odor mixed with Tide pods – it’s hard to place whether the aesthetic is ‘retro hippie’ or ‘depressingly alone at college’. One washer fights demons as it rocks back and forth violently, making an alarming racket as it hits the surrounding machines.

Max sits on the washer nearest the door while I move my clothes into one of the floor-level dryers. He’s barefoot, as usual, swinging his feet around while playing with his beaten-up credit card. His worn-out U.S. Air Force shirt and oversized green basketball shorts could be mistaken for his ‘laundry day’ outfit of mismatched clothing, but in reality, this is a regular outfit for the Barefoot Boy of Boundary Village.

“So how do you feel about people touching your laundry? Because yours were done and I needed the washer but I didn’t know if you’re one of those people who gets all upset when people move their clothes when the machine is done,” he muses.

“I’m fine with you touching my underwear, as long as it’s not on my body,” I said, giving him a side eye. I somehow share more dirty jokes with Max than anyone else in my life, even though he’s one of the most platonic male friendships I’ve ever had. I try to move my clothes quickly between the washer and dryer, slightly worried that he might see the pink lace underwear I wore for no specific occasion last week.

As I’m awkwardly crouched at the dryer, a first-floor neighbor bikes through the hallway on a green cruiser bike with a very low seat and white flower detailing on the side. The U-lock is dangling from the bottom stem. His wired headphones are in, but I still shout after him, “You know that’s not where the lock goes, right?”

“I lost the key,” he shouts back as he turns the corner and out of earshot. 

“You tight with him?” Max asks, chuckling. 

“Oh, I know of him,” I reply with a knowing look. “I know he’s a player, and he dated a freshman girl. And that he ghosted me when I asked him to get coffee last spring. Which I think was God helping me dodge a bullet…” 

Coffee dates are one of the wild cards of college life. With intention rarely specified and about five legitimate coffee shops in the city, it becomes a lethal game of ‘LinkedIn connection or future husband?’ Last year, one of my roommates met a guy in the laundry room who asked for her number. Crazy place to pick up a date, but I was in full support because his name was Matt, and I consequently consecrated him as “LaundroMatt” immediately. 
As I dump my warm clothes onto my bed later that evening, I find a new visitor in my humble abode: a crusty Nike sock, seemingly in a men’s size. I stare at it, absolutely befuddled. This is the second laundry cycle in a row in which my sock drawer has accidentally acquired a new tenant. I know the soccer boys wear these high Nike socks. Could it perhaps belong to that very good-looking Norwegian #2 who happens to live in my dorm room from last year? That’d be a treat. ‘Hey, homeboy, is this your sock? Also, wanna get married?’ Nice idea. No, I’ll let this sock sit on my bedpost for about a day and then throw it away.