As most New Yorkers are all too painfully aware, this is pie in the sky. Finding an apartment with a washer/dryer that you can afford is like finding a unicorn who can do an impression of Frank Caliendo doing an impression of Jimmy Hoffa’s unmarked grave. In other words, “somewhat difficult.” I should know -- I’ve seen me do it.
Unless your name is Tad and you work in leverage finance, you’ve probably had a similar experience. (Or you live in Queens, which, like... congratulations on “having it all,” bruh. All of us over here in civilization are really happy for you.) When I finally found a place that didn’t suck pigeon taint, I was so punch-drunk over its multiple windows and recently caulked grout that I was able to push my washer/dryer pipe dream to the side. I resigned myself to reality. I made a compromise.
Laundry in New York is bleak choreography.
I have regretted this moment for six months. I will regret it forever, I think. Just like that, with neither pomp nor circumstance, the city snatched another shred of dignity from the tattered rag heap of my soul. I accepted my fate with uncharacteristic grace. I had no more tears to cry.