Sunday laundry

I'm cozy inside a green Mexican poncho. My jeans are ripped and frayed. My feet refuse to be entrapped by socks and my toes wiggle on the carpet.

Buffalo Springfield is serenading me with hippy songs and I'm munching on whole-grain bread from Berkeley. Today is a study day and I feel like a vagabond. I'm about to go camp out in the library for who-knows-how-many hours to do homework for my African societies class. I can barely even call it homework though; I have four African movies to watch and analyze. Tough life, I know.

My laundry is fresh out of the dryer; warm and delicious. I bury my nose in the towels, nostalgic memories of childhood streaming through my mind. We'd bear-hug dad when he held warm laundry so we could soak up the warmth. In the chilly winters we'd brave the cold and run to the dryer to get out the warm clothes we'd been heating up. We'd dance around in the cold air pulling up our hot jeans trying not to get burned by the washers or zipper. Every so often we'd have massive sock-folding marathons and the warm static electricity would make our hair stand on end. Zap.

Those were good times. As I carry my warm pile of laundry back to my apartment I smile. Warm laundry will always make me smile. It's the little things in life...and the silly, happy memories that accompany them that make a soul lighter. Finals are coming up and if I think about it too long, my brain has a panic attack. But right now, in this moment, I'm cozy inside a green Mexican poncho with armfuls of warm, yummy laundry.