I stood folding my still hot clothes on the small, plastic laundromat table that always reminds me of a public bathroom diaper station. The TV was blasting the sound of Mexican (or Spanish) soap operas over by the desk where the woman always politely exchanged my dollars for quarters ever since the coin machine quit working a year ago.
I was about halfway finished neatly folding my clothes when a truly profound thought crossed my mind. To confirm my hypothesis, I did a quick count of my underwear on the table. This realization will be the next bit of laundry lore, right up there with the sock gobbling driers. I will publish my findings in an academic article I plan to title There Are Always More Dirty Underwear Than it Has Been Days Since I Washed Them, or something to that effect.
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