My lifting partner left me a voicemail message saying he couldn’t make it to the gym this morning. While he left the message for me before I went to bed, my crappy cell phone provider didn’t deliver the message to me until after I had already gotten up at 5:30 AM. I’m calling them today to complain, and hopefully get some free goodies to ease my unhappiness.

So what to do with all the free time? Hell, I’m not going to the gym alone! I’m always afraid that someone mightF flirt with me when I’m by myself and if there is a time I don’t want to flirt (besides when on public transportation) it’s when I’m sweating doing cardio or weights. I feel so unsexy.

So, I noticed in the corner of my room were two bags filled with dirty laundry. You know who should do wash some dirty laundry? Christina Aguilera, ‘cause she’s dirrty. *Ghetto speak* Shoot-- her panties were all up in her lunchbox, shoot.

I peered out my window to see how many people were in the Laundromat across the street. Seeing at least three of the washing machines were open I decided to spend my morning at LaunderLand!

Doesn’t the name "LaunderLand" sound like some far off magical place you would want to run to as a child? A place where one could escape his or her parents and/or siblings. There are many special creatures in Launderland, like Tide the Dragon, Cheer the Gnome and Downey the slightly retarded Elf. The three of them together fight the evils of Lord Pit Stains, Magician Ring-Around-the-Collar and the nefarious Sheriff Static Cling.

Today, however, none of the magical creatures of LaunderLand were there. I teared up when I walked through the doors. I wrote this story however. Enjoy.

The whole room vibrates and spins with electricity. The non-human hum, mixed with coughs and cackles of a few men and women who were brave enough like me to attempt the mundane on a Thursday morning, does not inspire any true reaction from me. John Cage would relish an experience like this picking apart the symphony of sounds; I however would rather be anywhere but here.

The walls are undressed exposing a mediocre tapioca cream color. A few plants are like inmates locked up in the artificial light. Their yellowed brown-fringed leaves droop. Saddened by their current state they finger the walls hoping to catch a real ray of the sun even if only for a moment.

Signs are peppered about the room commanding us with what not to do. I survey the room to see if any of the signs have a positive message or at the very least a thank you. Not one in the bunch.

A woman's heavy steps come up behind me. Her perfume is thick, fighting with all the other scents in the air. A spot right behind the bridge of my nose pulsates, screaming for me to stop smelling. A small pinprick ache cuts my brain. I angrily turn towards the woman because of the unexpected odor assault. She smiles at me like she just ate sunshine. Her hair is wispy, undulating down her shoulders, puddling on her breasts. Despite my head aching I grin back at her. “Relax,” I say under my breath “relax.”

The street traffic begins to pick up. Looking out through the bar encased windows I notice people outside carrying lattes and pushing strollers. They look in. I can tell what they are thinking, how grateful they are to be outside enjoying the weather instead of being cooped up doing chores.

The room feels more and more institutional. Most of the people inside are keeping to themselves. No one has uttered even the smallest of words, no “hello”, no ”pardon”, nothing. All they do is stare at the walls. I am left to imagine they must be dreaming of what else they could be doing instead of being stuck here. A man to my left is sitting on the middle orange molded plastic chair. Closed off and defensive, arms folded across his chest, his eyes focused downward. He sighs heavily adding another layer to the noise in the room.

An obsessive woman in the corner keeps feeding the change machine one-dollar bills. The machine keeps throwing up quarters. A smile spreads across her face wider than the Pacific Ocean. I can tell she feels safe, playing with her very own personal Vegas’ style slot machine where she always breaks even.

I want to make conversation. I look around the room, scanning the people to see who might be receptive to a bit of banter. The smelly woman is now engrossed in her magazine. The attendant is astir with a small stepping stool adding enough water to the poor prisoner plants to keep them alive a few more days. I wonder if the plants ever get a crust of bread. Each and every person is wrapped up in himself or herself, blanketed with vacant stares. I look towards the ground.

The floor seems to be growing hair. I’m sure it is swept often enough to keep it from having a full-blown ‘fro. I knell down to take a closer look. I see bits of string, hair and indiscernible lint. A small peppermint candy is melting under one of the tables. I feel like I am melting.

The progression of our activities has made the room humid and warm. I shed my sweatshirt exposing my tattered T-shirt. I ran out of clothes, as is usually the case on laundry day. My time is almost up. I start to feel slightly giddy. I’ll be able to leave this place. I had not made any friends.

A small dog is patrolling the perimeter of the room. The dog only pauses long enough to sniff a few pant legs before moving on. She’s a dark mini Schnauzer, her hair has grown out and is un-brushed. She trots towards me but does not stop. She has spotted the melted peppermint candy with her dark little eyes. Her nose sniffs it and she bites at the ground. With little effort she manages to get it off the floor. The taste must not have been to her liking as she tries to spit it out, her tongue spasms every which way. The candy falls only as far as her beard, sticking to the mass of ratted hair. I laugh and the room turns to look at me. Only the smelly woman smiles, all the rest would rather have not heard my laugh and they go back meditating on the mechanical droning.

I’m done. Packing up my clothes I look once again around the room. I wonder what I have in common with the people here? I wonder what they will do with the rest of their day? I am not sure I care, but I want to. It’s often the case when I’m around a group of strangers I keep my distance, secretly yearning for someone to talk to me—if only to remind me, I too am deserving of being talked with. I’m not asking for a discussion on existentialism with a complete stranger. I just want someone to ask me how I’m doing.

At the door one of the plants is almost stretched far enough to catch the sunlight. I feel happy for the plant and turn to in and whisper, “Keep trying.”