When danger is near, the common ostrich will bury her head in the sand until danger passes, or she is made into dinner. Quite similarly, that’s how I approach all of life’s major issues. This week, for example, my washing machine broke. I tossed in a load of whites, added my meth recipe (detergent, softener, Oxi-Clean, and Odo-Ban), the basin filled, then spun. Anyone notice the missing cycle? AGITATE! Fill, agitate, spin, rinse, agitate, spin…COME ON WASHING MACHINE! Is that so difficult? I pulled a few pieces out, whispered, “WTF”, and watched as clumps of dampened Oxi-Clean crumbled back into the basin. Great. Now I’ll have spots on all my clothes. That was on Sunday, it is now Tuesday night; and do you know what steps I’ve taken to rectify this situation? None. I cuss at the washing machine every time I pass by it. I crinkle up my nose as I smell the laundry mildewing. I sit in front of a telephone all day long – every day. Have I picked it up to call the repair man? Of course not. I’m dealing with my broken washing machine the very same way I’ve dealt with everything with the most remote difficulty for the past 7 years: stick my head in the sand and wait it out. Eventually the problem will resolve itself OR fester like a sore until I’m damn near amputation status before I make a weak attempt at handling it.
I feel extremely attached to this washing machine, so I know I must get her fixed. Normal people probably don’t develop relationships with inanimate objects, but this washing machine and I have history. I struggled to get her and I fought to keep her. I’m quite certain I’m the only girl in the history of the world who had to fight a repo man to maintain custody of her washing machine. Yeah, those were my “rock-bottom” days. Days when I’d work two jobs, come home depressed, drink Boon’s Farm wine, curl into a fetal position, and sob hysterically over being the girl who had to avoid the washing machine repo man.
However, those days are behind me (nipping at my heels, but nevertheless, behind me), so why don’t I just pick up the phone and get the machine fixed? What in my little pea brain makes me think it will be easier to wait until the laundry has mildewed and must be thrown away, the smell is unbearable, the washing machine will need bleaching, and the repair man will still need calling? I imagine then I’ll even go to the laundromat and spend money I could be paying to the repair man. Nothing like bagging up my laundry, carting it to a cootie infested laundromat, spending $30 in quarters, folding my skivvies next to some scuzzy pervert, and bagging the laundry back up to bring it home…where a perfectly beautiful washing machine sits.
It’s exhausting, not to mention expensive, living the life of an ostrich.