When I was a parasite in my parents’ household, a maid did the laundry. This was "full-service" at its finest: I threw my dirty clothes anywhere in the house and by MAGIC they reappeared in my closet, clean and pressed! Missing buttons, tears—everything was handled without my even realizing it. There was a dirty-clothes hamper in the bathroom, which I occasionally managed to throw a wet towel in, of course. But for the most part, I let the dirty clothes drop wherever I undressed. Add in the pile of clean clothes that I regularly let fall to the bottom of the closet as I tried on different outfits for the day, and you will agree that I was a high-maintenance laundry "customer." (Hey, I wasn’t the only one with this laundry ethic: we were an entire family of offenders on this point.)
In college, I guess I did my own laundry. These years are somewhat blurry from the drug-and-alcohol haze, so who knows for sure. I do know that I was too lazy to clean my own towels and sheets: I signed up for a weekly linen service which only required me to stuff the dirty things into a storage locker and then retrieve the clean things later in the day. Mind you, this was still more work than I had ever done in this arena. At home, I had had bed-changing and turndown service worthy of a fine hotel, all courtesy of the same loving maid.
After college, I made my way through a series of apartments and roommates. Only at this point do I actually remember specifically traipsing to laundromats to handle the wash-and-dry of daily life. (I must add here that I had a lot of clothes, and often went shopping for something new rather than get a load of laundry together.) My roommates were very meticulous with the care of their own garments, and occasionally I could convince them to wash some of my things as well. I did try out several laundry ‘services’ but since that still required me getting the clothes together and taking them to the laundromat, it seemed about the same trouble as doing it myself.
I did have moments of laundry enjoyment during the apartment-dwelling years. I remember times when going to the Laundromat seemed like a quiet escape from the daily hectic grind. I would take a book and hang out with the soothing white noise of the machines in the background. Laundromats seem to often be situated near a convenience store, so there was a chance to grab a junk-food treat not usually available in my own pantry. In one apartment complex, the laundry room was situated right by the pool: a real "resort" laundry experience!
When I moved into a higher-end apartment with actual laundry hookups, I finally broke down and had my own washer and dryer installed. It made laundry care more convenient, of course, since I only had to drag the dirty clothes down the hall; however, I generally still postponed the chore until I literally had nothing to wear. When I had friends over, they occasionally felt sorry for me and tossed a load in.
Finally there was relief: with my marriage I got a bonus---a great husband who does laundry. I must admit, I have complained from time to time about the quality of his work (stains that weren’t pretreated, lack of bleach in the whites); he advised, "Walk out your front door and yell to the other women in the neighborhood about your complaints, and see how much sympathy you get." I backed down.
My childhood experience has obviously had a lifelong effect in my regard for this household chore. I demand laundry PERFECTION---daily wash/dry opportunities, pickup/delivery, repair, ironing, and (of course) superior quality on both whites and colors. I suppose I could take the bull by the horns and start doing the laundry myself, to ensure I would have complete customer satisfaction…but why start now after so many years?