We have a new washer. And it’s a super-deluxe sort of less-water, less detergent-using sort of washer that as far as I can tell barely gets your clothes wet at all but still does actually manage to get them clean. When it spins up, it sounds like a jet engine powering on. A very quiet jet engine. Like, Wonder Woman’s invisible jet engine quiet (I assume it’s quiet. An invisible but very loud jet isn’t really invisible, is it). I suspect this washer may be more technologically advanced than the last three computers I bought. Honestly, I don’t know if I’m qualified to work it. I think it runs for me out of pity.
Incidentally, and related, the first time I really kind of felt like an adult was when I was 23, about to move from my very first apartment, and I made the decision that, with God as my witness, I would never live in an house or apartment without its own washer or dryer ever again. Because a washer and dryer to call your own is one of the very sweetest gifts of modern civilization. Yes, yes, petty bourgeois sentiment. Eat my socks. If you could get to them, that is, which you can’t because I don’t have to show up in the same laundromat as your sorry ass anymore. So ha, I say! Ha!
Anyway: Washer! It’s nice.