Intimidated by the mess, I surveyed my bedroom floor, trying to develop the best strategy for my feat.
I poured the contents of my duffle bag onto my bed and began trying to fold the tissue-paper-crinkled clothing. Lugging my laundry home to my parents’ house last weekend seemed like a brilliant cure to New York City washer-withdraw—motivated by my return to suburbia, I sorted, washed and dried, only to lose interest during the final fluff before the fold.
Home to celebrate my sister’s upcoming wedding, I spent my Saturday drinking wine with family and visiting with friends.
On Sunday, distracted from responsibility, we drank Red Stripes in the parking lot, waiting for the show to begin.
Monday morning, I woke up. The concert seemed like a dream.
Shit. It’s Monday. And I am in New Jersey.
I looked at the clock on my phone.
Shit. I was supposed to be at work an hour ago.
I began a scavenger hunt around my parents’ house, recollecting my duffle bag’s contents. My last stop: the laundry room, where, in one hefty sweep, I transported my clothes directly from dryer to duffel before swinging out the door, my father trailing behind to drive me to the bus.
I was immediately pulled back into the City.—The days flow into each other, as the City pushes forward, never hesitating or regretting.
For four days, I flowed with the City—in and out of my Brooklyn boot-box apartment (slightly bigger than a Manhattan shoebox). A tilde wave’s aftermath of clothes, shoes, purses and Martha Stewart magazines now covered my bedroom floor.
But cleaning would have to wait, as I had a very strict agenda: Unpack. Pack.
Ignoring everything in my room I didn’t need, I rushed to repack before the City’s wave of exhaustion swept over me once again.