16 Nov 2007 › 10:20 am
So here’s the deal. I send my laundry out to be done. Trust me, in NYC this isn’t thought of as even remotely bourgeois. Like all New Yorkers, I’ve come to think of my time as being extremely valuable. So after crunching the numbers I concluded that outsourcing my dirty clothes would be a bargain at thrice the price.
But occasionally, it will occur to me that I’ve hired a stranger to fish my dirty panties out of a laundry bag, sort, wash, fluff, and (of course) fold them according to (what appear to be) military regulations (swear to God – we’re talking thong origami). And I have to tell you that this thought leaves me less than thrilled. It’s not embarrassment I feel; in fact, I’m a bit of a dirt bag if you want to know the truth. Not exactly the kind of girl who vacuums frantically before having friends over. No, the feeling is more excruciatingly specific than that. I think I may have discovered a new, unexplored wellspring of White Guilt…
That’s right, I feel guilty that another woman (generally a minority woman) has to touch my undies for a living. Now I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking…
A. Grow up—such is the world.
B. Waah-waah waah- Whitey. Why don’t you dry your tears with a slice of Wonder Bread and call yourself a waaambulance.
C. Who the hell are you, CG, to presume that the underwear-toucher’s life isn’t fantastic?
D. Newsflash – the fluff and fold isn’t gonna to go out of business even if you DO get off your lazy ass and wash your own skanky clothes.
E. Frankly CG, I find this entire blog entry to be gross and disturbing. I mean, just how dirty ARE your underwear? You know what? Don’t answer that. In fact, let’s never speak of it again. In fact I’m gonna go take a Purell bath. Good day.
F. All of the above.
