I present to you a harrowing tale borne of practicality and, in my mind at least, necessity. Somehow throughout the week it seems that every piece of clothing we owned ended up in the dirty hamper. It is then incumbent upon me to take the accumulated filthy garments to the basement where I will begin the washing process. Being as yesterday was Monday, that was the day I did it. Monday is traditionally wash day.
The rag man of Fourth Street descending the stairs to rake vigorously at the washboard and crank endlessly at the wringer. Metaphorically speaking, of course. A word about my clothes washing machines. They are brand spanking new and I am immensely proud of them. They were a recent attainment, made necessary by the moving to this house. Never in my adult life have I ever bought a washer and dryer. Everywhere I lived up until the the cresting sunrise of dotage that is 32, has already had garb gushers and habiliment heaters installed.
At any rate, as I carried my heavy basket down the stairs I became seized with an idea. In the spirit of completionism, the dire need to say that all clothes were washed at once. You are starting your work at home week with every vestment at your whim. Very, very important.
In order to complete this, I needed to rid myself of the duds I now wore. I did so. Emptying the contents of the hamper into the steampunk washtub and then depositing that which I had on after it. There I stood, only wearing my birthday suit. (Hand wash only) Raw, bare-assed, disrobed, unclad, undraped, live and in the scud.
There I stood, proud as, maybe not a peacock, but certainly a colorful songbird. A work of art before his wholly owned machines of industry. The ESPN Body Issue for humorists. Michelangelo’s David.
It was now that I realized that I could not remain in the basement, but would be forced to return from whence I came. This was post-workout, I might add, and I was sweaty (Please refer back to the ESPN Body Issue comment) and needed to gently hand wash to the old flesh flannel in the big sink at the top of the house.
I dashed! Gaining speed across the basement and leaping up the stairs two at a time. It is impossible to slow down the mental and physical synchronicity that made this beautiful sprint come to pass, but I must do so now so that you have an idea of the obstacle in place. Namely: every single window was open.
The afternoon sun shone in, bathing the house in a delicious natural light. My only hope was to do this so quick that people did not see, or else, couldn’t be exactly sure of what they saw. Also: one hates to be the cause of marital dissatisfaction among neighbors. Love and devotion are all too easily usurped by the uncontrollable lust for the carnal. And I, dear reader, am nothing if not a carny.
The ghost of the Buddha continued the 100 yard dash through the downstairs. What were the effects of such an exertion? “The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind.”
I made it. I made it to the chamber and began the post-industrial waterfall and was saved.
Was I spotted? Or will the white flash of lightning become a source of Fourth Street lore?
It is not for me to decide.
“Gather round, children. Huddle close to the citronella candle, and in the glow of the artfully strung string of lightbulbs on our back patio, I will tell you about the day we saw the Albino Sasquatch.”