Feeling low? Might I recommend hieing yourself over to your nearest laundromat? You can clean your clothes, and, as a bonus, remind yourself that you are very, very fortunate and should never complain again.
My laundromat is staffed by two middle-aged latina women who rarely speak, but often roll their eyes as I stuff fourteen towels and three pairs of jeans into a single load. I feel guilty about these women. I am sure that my whiteness and relative prosperity has somehow caused their lot in life, although I’m not certain how. So I usually just smile and mutter hello and then continue destroying the equipment.
Tonight, I was sitting in my favorite chair by the door, reading Blink, because I am the last person on the planet who has yet to do so, when a young latino man came in and started talking to one of the women.
“What the fuck you got on your leg?” she asked him.
He proudly displayed his tattoo, which, from what I could see over my glasses, appeared to be a nude woman surrounded by swirls of her long flowing hair. There was also another figure, but I couldn’t make out what it was doing.
“It’s a tattoo,” he said.
“What is she doing?” the woman demanded.
“She eating her pussy out.”
I looked again. The other figure, was, in fact, another woman. Engaged in the act of, er, well.
“You sick fuck!” the woman screamed and swatted him. “Why you put that on your leg? WHY YOU WANNA PUT THAT ANYWHERE ON YOUR BODY?”
He tapped his chest. “That’s me! That’s how I roll.” (As an aside, this is my new favorite expression.)
She shook her head. “What are you doing tonight?”
“Gonna get a six pack.”
It was just about then that I started to get a sinking feeling.
“Well, be careful. I won’t bail you out this time!”
The young man left, and the woman turned to her friend. “He’s my youngest,” she said proudly. She smiled. “My baby!”
A note to Ma Smash: It could be worse. I’ve only got the one tattoo, and there are no ladyparts anywhere in it!