Today I have donned a heinous piece of clothing, one that no man should have to wear, a mark of shame. It sits on my chest like the scarlet letter from Hawthorn’s great tale, but I am not brandished for my adulterous ways. I am marked, instead, for my sloth. Today I pull on this brown and yellow monstrosity because it is, without exaggeration, my only clean garment. It is the sole survivor, neatly folded in my closet, against the unkempt hoards that pile up on my dorm room floor, reaching tall for the window like a plant starved of light. But today there has to be a change.
Today is laundry day.
It’s been coming all week, and I’ve to put it off as long as I can, but now the walk of shame is upon me. Today I pull on my thrice worn jeans, flaunting their mustard stain proudly on my left thigh, and climb the flight of stairs to the washroom, with my overflowing laundry hamper in hand. I wear my slippers on this journey; all my socks have ripened and passed their prime. In fact the only relief I have is that the musk from my worn out wardrobe is hidden underneath a cloud of deodorant and body spray.
So for now I write to you from the Wills Dorm laundry room. Because today I have three loads of laundry waiting for the grime and stench to be washed off, three tormenting climbs up the stairs, and three times I’ll try to hide that red letter so boldly brandished on my chest.
With great shame,
JAB
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