No Crying Over Wet Laundry

After finishing my fluffy, private-school, graduate program, I moved back home to Louisville.  I had secured my first real job and an apartment with my boyfriend, and I was ready to start adulting.  I immediately began working nights at a news station—a lonely and depressing job, most likely responsible for breeding serial killers and magicians.  Most days, I spent my mornings sleeping until 1pm and dreading the prospect of teasing another murder for the 11 o’clock news or highlighting another vigil for a child gone missing.  But on the days I dragged myself out of bed early, mainly due to the whines of a needy dog pawing at my face, begging me to play with whatever piece of clothing she got out of the dirty clothes basket, I decided it couldn’t hurt to be productive.  Work had been slowly eroding my sanity, and as I saw myself beginning to unravel, I had to find some way to reassure myself that I was still capable of functioning as an adult.

[I’ll preface this by saying that I have never been good at doing laundry.  I would drive my laundry home during college so my mother could do it for me, and when I went away to Boston and Los Angeles, I invested in strong perfume so I could spray many-a pants crotch and blouse armpit.]

On this particular morning, I had looked at the crumpled piles spread about our room.  When your co-habitant equally inept at mastering the whole “like colors” and “tumble dry” thing, laundry for two becomes more than a small household chore.  I had two and a half hours before I needed to shower and get ready to leave for work.  I had this in the hamper bag.

***

As soon as I moved home and started making my own money, it was clearly time to cut the cord.  And by cord, I mean credit card.  My parents had opened a credit card in my name and linked it to their bank account when I was a senior in high school.  “For emergencies,” they said.  Just like when they bought me a cell phone in eighth grade, “for emergencies.”  Ignoring the messaging fees to text Stefanie about my newly-purchased polyphonic ring tone to “Sugar” by Trick Daddy and Ludacris was obviously an emergency.  That definition has always been a little liberal for me.

I called my mother and let her know that I had just cut up my credit card.  Honestly, I always used it very sparingly and hadn’t used it in months, save for a few drunken Uber rides and nights when I got a little ambitious and slurringly promised all my friends: “next round is on me” (irrefutably, these events coincided more often than not).  I was more than surprised to hear that she wasn’t ecstatic that I had snipped the MomNDad Support Hotline.  “What if you have an emergency?  What if something comes up and you don’t have the money?”  Relax, mom.  I’m an adult, remember?  She also reminded me that my HSA card was about to expire, which then reminded me that I was still under the sovereignty and protection of my parents’ health insurance and planned to milk it for all it’s worth until the eve of my 26th birthday.  Okay, so I’m kind of an adult.

***

Slinging a laundry bag over my shoulder and stacking two, full baskets on top of one another, I precariously waddled across the parking lot to the laundry room in our neighborhood’s clubhouse.  I had pre-sorted everything, and even wrapped my unmentionables up in a towel to prevent any mouth-breathing creep lurking in the laundry room from taking a sniff (I’m a lady).

Our washers and dryers are card operated—not even a slot for quarters (which I’m totally fine with, because who collects change anymore, anyway).  Sometimes the connection is shoddy, so it takes a few swipes before the card is recognized and authorized, but still easier than carrying around a sack of silver.  I loaded up five of the eight washers.  One of the eight was out of order, so that makes me a bigger asshole, but it was mid-morning on a Tuesday and I was pretty sure most normal people were at work and not concerned about snagging a prime spot for the spin cycle.  I threw in a few Tide pods, swiped my card a few dozen times, and heard the water begin to fill each machine.  My work here was done.

***

At the same time my parents got me a credit card, they also thought it wise to open checking and savings accounts for me, as well.  I had just started my first job: a barista.  I came home each night with dry milk crusted into my arm hairs and I reeked of 2-day-old mop water, but I was making money.  Money that needed to be deposited somewhere to save me from cashing each check and blowing it “just because.”  Since I wasn’t quite 18 yet, I was given a custodial account, which meant my parents would be there to monitor every move and inspect each purchase, and also reap the benefits of having accounts in good standing.

Up until recently, I had used the same custodial account I originally opened.  To write rent checks.  To pay the electric bill.  To pay the water bill.  To purchase all my school supplies.  It didn’t really bother me that my parents could see my purchases (all the adult stores along I-65 preferred cash, anyway).  But now with a new job and a new life, I needed to open my own account, and probably get my own credit card.  I applied for the credit card first. I waited.

I seethed when I read the letter from PNC.  Despite my sterling credit score of 778, I was denied.  All the credit I had established and all my account activities over the past 6 years were pointless, because they were reflected on my parents.  I tore the letter up and decided I would try Chase in a few weeks.  I could survive for while without a credit card, anyway, and why start racking up more debt right away?

***

I returned to the laundry room to switch my loads to the dryers.  The complex still seemed abandoned as I scuttled across the parking lot again, wallet, keys and phone in hand.  I struggled moving all of our sopping wet clothes to the dryers.  Mainly because I had been skipping arm day for the last 6 months (and leg day, and back day, and gym day altogether), but also because whoever laid out this laundry room did not take into consideration that stacking dryers on top of one another really puts hobbits like myself at a blatant disadvantage.  I tossed in some dryer sheets, shut all the doors, and began swiping.  Swipe swipe, swipe swipe.  Swipeswipeswipe.  I knew these things were temperamental, but this was just obnoxious.  After the twelfth “DECLINED” message, I figured it had to do something with my card—probably because the several $1.50 purchases in a row sent up a red flag.  I would just call PNC, get my account unfrozen, and I’d be good to go.  12:33pm.  I definitely still had time to shower and have these dried before I had to leave at 1:45.

After waiting on hold for what seemed like an eternity, I was connected with Cheryl, who sounded like she didn’t completely hate her job and genuinely wanted to help me.

Name.  Social security number.  Birthday.  Address. Account PIN.  Recent purchases. Blood type.  Dental records.  Family medical history.

Finally.

“Um, Ms. Hines, it looks like your account has a hold on it…”
“Yes, yes I know.  Our laundry machines over in my apartment complex get crazy sometimes, and I’m doing a bunch of loads at the same time so I’m sure that caused some sort of…”
“Ms. Hines, were you in Oak Park, Michigan mid-January?”
“Um, no?  I don’t—“
“Has anyone from PNC contacted you about this recently?”
“No…”
“Your account has been marked for suspicious activity.  You did not make a $52.70 purchase at a 7/11 in Oak Park, Michigan, correct?”
“No, no, that wasn’t me.  I was just calling to hopefully get the hold taken off my account so I could finish doing my laundry because I really have to be at work soon, and I have wet clothes just sitting in here.”
“Ms. Hines, I understand.  Unfortunately, your account has been compromised and for your safety, we have to close your card and send you a new one.”

My face got hot.  I begged.  Come on, Cheryl, woman-to-woman, domestic goddess-to-domestic goddess.  Just take the hold off my account for like 3 minutes, and I promise I’ll tell you when I’m done with the dryers and you can go ahead and shut ‘er down.  I won’t tell anyone. If PNC calls asking me questions, I don’t know nothin’, didn’t see nothin’.  My voice began to crack and I could feel the tears slowly creep into the corner of my eyes, just waiting for the dam to break.  Cheryl apologized again, and repeated that Gold Star in Customer Service phrase, “I really wish there were something I could do.”

I burst into guttural sobs, my mouth flapping like a baited catfish’s—the ugly cry that is only reserved for karmic misfortunes and pet funerals.  I opened my wallet and looked at the empty slot where my credit card used to be.  “What if you have an emergency?” my mother’s voice rang in my head.  In desperation, I grabbed my HSA card—that’s linked to an account, right?!  As I swiped it, grasping for straws, the expiration date glared at me.  It was now 12:57 and my face was salty and sticky and I still needed to dry these clothes and take a shower and I was stuck on the phone with Cheryl who was trying to get information on where to send the new card, pausing to let me weep after every answer I gave.  I sunk into a corner of the room and let out a visceral wail. 

“Um, Ms. Hines, are you alright?”
“I just...ssft ssft sssft...I just have to get to work and…sssssft…I hate my job and it’s awful and I was just trying to do some laundry today…ssssssft ssft…everything is just going so wrong right now and my clothes are wet and now I don’t have a debit card…ssftssftsssssft...no, it’s not your fault Cheryl, I know, girl, I know.”  And just then, a woman cheerily walked into the laundry room to see me puddled on the floor, regaling Cheryl with the events that led up to this quarter-life crisis like she was my high school guidance counselor.  I scooped myself up and wiped my eyes, muttering some unbelievable explanation, “ugh, allergies.” 

Cheryl had gotten all the information she needed, and I headed back to my apartment to get a few baskets so I could retrieve my wet clothes and my dignity from the laundry room.  I called my boyfriend and cried.  I called my mom and cried.  I sat in the shower and cried like an angsty teenager in a John Cusack movie.  And I decided that sometimes, trying to be an adult is weird and complicated and sometimes you’ll crumble like a child who just received news that Santa isn’t real and oh by the way, we’re not you’re real parents because we kidnapped you at birth from a gas station in Hoboken. 

Wet laundry and cancelled debit cards are trivial, at most, in that grand scheme that everyone always refers to.  But subconsciously, it was more than that.  I was trying to navigate this new life and prove that I could be a certifiable adult, and I was trying more than anything to convince myself of it.  In truth, we all need that metaphorical breakdown in the communal laundry room to really move forward, right?  That moment when we confront one of the greatest fears of most 20-somethings: trying to be kind of an adult, but not really.