Death match. That’s the only plausible explanation I can find for why I repeatedly take pairs of socks to the laundromat and return with unmatched sets. I check shirt sleeves, pants, pockets. I run my hands around the insides of the washer and dryer walls, searching in vain. I walk the route from our Coshocton apartment to the car, and from the car to the laundromat.
The only remaining solution is…Thunderdome!
In a fight to the finish, apocalyptic style, Max blue crew sock faces Blaster blue crew sock. In a thirty minute cycle, Blaster is tossed relentlessly until he disintegrates in a puff of lint. When all the clothes are folded and the dryer turned by hand, a single, blue, Mad Max crew sock awaits my foot.
Or, maybe my sock is in a holding cell of the dryer, and I haven’t figured out how to negotiate the release. I’m Auntie Entity and I haven’t shouted loud enough:“Master Blaster run Laundromat!” “Lift the Embargo”
But in the end, despite all the pleading and searching and death match reverie, eventually you just have to let the sock go.
Seriously, where do they go?
2 thoughts on “Two Sock Enter, One Sock Leave: Death Match at the Coschocton Laundromat”
I’be always believed that certain dryers spin at just a certain speed, and produce heat and moisture at precise levels, and when combined with the earth’s rotation and certain distances from the Sun and moon, that this opens a portal to an alternate dimension which just happens to be inhabited by sentient sock beings who see our socks as kin, and therefore kidnap them into their own reality…but it’s just a theory.
I’m glad somebody finally figured out what was happening to all of those socks. Of course now I’m a little nervous about just casually reaching into my washer or dryer now that I know what really goes on in there. WOW!! LOL
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