When it's hot I'm ready to go.
Fresh air smells better than computer radiation, I get the requisite 20 minutes of zinc-free Vitamin D sun exposure to counter the digital contrast tan, and mild exercise! Goodbye upper arm flab! The extra flesh that has mysteriously come to roost around my middle? Should melt by the basket load. (Why oh why doesn't alcohol burn fat cells instead of brain cells, my friend Kate laments.)
I know, just one pass at liposuction and I could be instantly free of baggage AND fuel a whole vat of fries (seems they should have some sort of fat-relay tube from the surgery table right back to the fast food kitchens.) But no, I want to work for it. I worked so hard to gain these pounds. I'm not going to let them go easily.
I know I'm going out on a line here, but I think I can melt ‘em off by doing laundry. That's two hands that would otherwise be occupied with eating.
Forget that it's unconscionable to run a dryer in sunny California.
I just want to leave a green corpse. It's not ecologically minded to die with a surplus 10-20 extra pounds. Pounds that would take more precious fossil fuels or wood to cremate and exude more methane gas to compost.
Arnie just dedicated this latest drought to us fine ecology-minded citizens. Running the dryer during these heat waves + Southern California Santa Anas (that's hot wind blowing in from the desert setting wildfires like birthday candles) cranks up the indoor temp hotter than a whorehouse, and-now-I realize I'm completely on the wrong path.
Geez, I could be sweating like a pig yanking electron-snapping socks out of a piping hot dryer in a room I could bake bread in. Sweet sweat-I could melt off my middle in one dryer load! What am I thinking, going outside the sissy-girlie way to enjoy the sweet-smelling air, commune with birds, watch the leaves shutter in the shade trees, remember my grandmother with her laundry pole that looked like an alien communications tower, think fondly of my childhood spent playing outside?
Here's my dirty little secret, if you want to know the truth. With my little bucket of those old-fashioned wooden laundry pins hooked on the line, I actually enjoy hanging clothes, snapping them to order. I have a zip line that reels out from a pepper tree and attaches to a post. If we still lived in tiny places with no yard or even windows to the sky (like we did for eleven years), I wouldn't care; I'd hang my bras from the neighbor's banana trees. It's nice to go outside. I wasted too many years at skanky Laundromats.
In moments the shirts are fluttering like birds in the nice cross-breeze we get up here in Mt. Helix. I find I pin up clothes in categories--each person's grubs in the family get sorted and hung at the same time-I can almost see my family out there fluttering, smelling uncharacteristically fresh. I pull each person down into their own piles, so these people I live with can put them away efficiently.
My daughters often have to hang their own-it's negative reinforcement for them shoving perfectly clean items in the laundry basket. They're still in elementary school, so one has to put on fake dress-up heels to reach the line. It's a hell of a visual and I'm pretty sure the wrong image for the daughter of a postneofeminist.
My husband? He either fries my underwear in the dryer (although sundried thongs aren't exactly soft) or leaves my dresses and his dress shirts to cool into cylinder-shaped wrinkles indefinitely or until we're out of clothes. So I try to beat him to it. He's good at bringing it in if I've had too much to drink.
When the laundry's dry, I unhook the line and let it fly back into the reel. Then I fold the reel unobtrusively back against the tree trunk. The hotter it is, the faster it dries. Socks match. It's a good system.
There-my dirty little secret is out of the closet now.
Causes Gayle Early Supports
Environmental protections, human rights, marriage equality