“Laundry Day and Other Near-Death Experiences”

Let me start by saying this: I deeply admire people who enjoy doing laundry. You’re the real superheroes. I don’t understand you, but I respect you. Because for me, laundry day is basically a full-blown emotional roller coaster that starts with optimism and ends with unmatched levels of existential dread.

It all began one sunny Saturday morning, when I made a bold decision: I was going to conquer my laundry pile. Not just do it—conquer it. I had a playlist. I had detergent that smelled like a lavender field married a lemon tree. I had fresh motivation from exactly one productivity reel on Instagram.

I should’ve known I was doomed when I pulled my laundry basket out from under the bed and it made a noise. Like an actual noise. Like the sound an animal makes when it realizes it’s been cornered. Turns out, I had not done laundry in...a while. Long enough for me to forget I even owned that neon orange T-shirt with a slice of pizza on it.

Fine. I gathered my courage and my socks—most of which had gone through a messy breakup with their partners—and dragged everything to the laundry room. My apartment complex has one washer. One. For 10 people. It’s a war zone. You snooze, you lose. Or worse, someone touches your damp underwear. It’s savage out there.

I walked in, hoping it would be empty, but no. There she was. That one neighbor who somehow always manages to be there before me. The Laundry Queen. Perfect posture. Matching laundry bags. Reading a book about productivity while folding her fitted sheets like a NASA engineer.

I gave her a tight-lipped smile. She nodded, victorious.

I slunk away, defeated, and waited in the hallway like a laundry vulture. After twenty minutes of trying to look casual while aggressively peeking through the glass door, she left. It was my time.

I crammed three weeks' worth of laundry into the machine. Yes, it was too much. Yes, it sounded like the washing machine was trying to fly away. No, I didn’t care. I closed the lid, hit start, and felt an immediate sense of accomplishment. Like I had just filed my taxes on time or remembered to drink water without being told.

Then I waited.

While the machine did its thing, I scrolled through my phone, got distracted, and decided to make a snack. By the time I remembered I had laundry, it had been 47 minutes. I sprinted back only to discover—brace yourself—someone had removed my clothes. Wet. Into a plastic chair. My dignity, soaking and dripping into a sad puddle of Tide and broken dreams.

How dare they? What monster would do such a thing?

It was the Laundry Queen. I could feel it.

I threw my damp clothes into the dryer and set it to “Scorch the Fabric.” Then I waited again. This time, I sat right in front of the dryer, guarding it like it was a dragon’s egg.

Ten minutes in, I started to feel proud. I was being responsible. Domestic. Adulting so hard.

And then…the fire alarm went off.

No joke.

Apparently, when you forget to clean the lint trap for two months, the dryer gets a little...fiery. I didn’t see flames, but I smelled panic. I hit stop, opened the dryer, and a puff of hot, smoky air blasted me in the face like the dryer had just coughed in my direction.

Everyone evacuated. The neighbors stood outside in various stages of laundry-related distress. One guy was wearing just pajama pants and holding his favorite shirt like it was his child. The Laundry Queen stood next to me and said, without blinking, “Always check the lint.”

Thank you, oh wise one. May your fitted sheets always be square.

When we were finally allowed back in, I was mortified. My laundry was damp, singed, and smelled vaguely of toasted socks. I carried it back to my apartment in shame, leaving a trail of warm embarrassment behind me.

Back home, I laid everything out on the furniture like I was hosting a garage sale. Shirts on chairs, socks on the windowsill, jeans doing the limbo across the shower curtain rod. It looked like my wardrobe exploded in protest.

I curled up on the couch, ate a granola bar out of spite, and promised myself I’d never let laundry pile up again. (Spoiler: I did. Two weeks later.)

But here’s what I learned from the experience:

Check the lint trap. Always.

Laundry patience is a real spiritual discipline.

Other people will touch your damp underwear if you wait too long.

Dryers are not magical. They have limits. Like you.

These days, I try to do laundry more regularly. I even bought one of those fancy collapsible drying racks. It collapsed on my foot once, but that’s another story.

Now when I see the Laundry Queen, I smile with less bitterness. We are not enemies—we are warriors in the same fabric battlefield. And while I may never fold a fitted sheet with grace, at least I know how to put out a metaphorical dryer fire.

Laundry day is still dramatic, mildly traumatic, and never without its comedy. But it’s also one of those ridiculous adult things we all have to do. And if you can survive it without setting off the fire alarm—or with only mild smoke—you’re doing just fine.