No Sunday is scarier than the one involving heaps of dirty leggings, sports bras, and my boyfriend’s Bombas socks piling up on my hamper. It takes about five minutes of courage-mustering to crawl under my hydraulic lift storage bed to procure my laundry accoutrements and assortment of oversized tote bags. But the real chaos ensues once I take the elevator down to the laundry room; or as I call it, the Bubbly Battlefield.
Bottles are strewn across the tops of machines, some ajar with blue goo dripping onto the white laundry lids. Remnants of last week’s lost-and-found sit dusty in the “intimates graveyard.” Singular socks left behind mingle together at their own party on the concrete floor. Lint balls dance in the air like tumbleweeds in a Western film, and in my brain, I hear a foley sound of a whistling ricochet, signaling tension in the air. A slow motion scene plays out—residents leaping, grabbing, and throwing their clothes from one drum to another, a valiant attempt to protect their pieces from being dropped on the floor in favor of freeing up a machine. On the off chance I decide to conquer laundry on a quieter weeknight, the task is just that: a task. A mundane chore that must be done.
So if laundry is something we all have to do, I thought, why not elevate it? How you do anything is how you do everything, et cetera. So why not make my laundry experience as luxurious as I want my life to feel? By swapping out my drugstore detergents with fragrant designer bottles and buying a hamper that can separate my clothes from my boyfriend’s, laundry became a ritual I actually looked forward to. By elevating my products, I created an experience; the Bubbly Battlefield no longer phases me when armed with the right tools.
