To Wash...Or Not to Wash

I have made an executive decision that in light of the fact that it is Labor Day weekend, and that I have been working hard and will soon be working harder, I will take it easy over the next few days on sevenhundredfiftywords. In other words, don't count; you'll come up short.

Tonight, exhausted, I was lying on the couch watching an old Seinfeld rerun, an episode I'd somehow never seen. I noticed that Jerry was talking on an old-school rotary phone--not cordless, not digital--what year could this have been? Anyway, on this episode, Jerry and George were at a laundromat. Suddenly, I had a flashback to a party the night before my graduation and sitting on a washing machine in the little laundry room out at the Townhouses, off-campus apartments where I lived for my last two years of college.

Although I remembered being in the laundry room--a free-standing structure in the center of the Townhouses--on the night of the party, I was quite sure, lying here on my couch seventeen years later, that I had never once been in there any other time. Then, I let my memory search further. I could not remember ever doing laundry on campus once I moved out of the dorms, not once. In two years. I did remember lugging a heavy canvas bag full of dirty laundry onto a bus on the way home for a vacation, along with Nicole, who had her own massive bag of dirty laundry (my parents must have been thrilled), but how could I have existed for two years without so much as washing a single sock?

I am actually going to ask a few of my former roommates and friends what they remember about my clothes-washing habits, or lack thereof, during this two year span. I am sufficiently puzzled to withstand the possibly upsetting responses.