flying through clouds of uncertainty on wings of existential dread
So I spotted Laundry Queen at the grocery store today, and it kind of made my day, and I was about to be all, “Laundry Queen! She’s the best!” on Facebook, and then I realized I’ve never told you guys who she is.
I don’t see her every time I do laundry – our schedules sync up rarely, so it’s always a fun surprise. Picture a tiny little woman, maybe 5′ tops, chocolate brown skin, with salt and pepper curls piled up on her head. I’m guessing her for mid-sixties, but you could tack 15 years onto that and I wouldn’t be shocked. She follows the unspoken code of the laundromat as far as clothes – baggy t-shirts, sweats, flip flops, because who the fuck’s looking on laundry day? – but she is always wearing no less than 5 rhinestone hair accessories. Today it was a sparkly headband, those beaded combs with the elastic between them, and 3 or 4 diamante clips. She is FABULOUS. She’s regal as hell, too. She always has her son/nephew/sexy young boyfriend with her, and he does all the work. He carries in the laundry and her little folding chair, sets her up with a bottle of sweet tea, and then she directs him while he loads the machines, pointing out where each and every garment should go. She holds the quarters in a beaded (naturally) coin purse and doles them out as needed, and that is the end of her physical labor. I swear, if she turned up one day with a group of boys carrying her in a sedan chair, it would just seem perfectly normal.
Please can I be her when I grow up? Also, please no one tell her I called her old, I’m pretty sure she could kick my ass.