The laundry room on weekend mornings is often not a pretty sight.

(the abundance of
coffee breath,
sweat pants,
fuzzy slippers,
bed head,
the last clean t shirt in the drawer, circa 1995,
absence of supportive undergarments)

All of us, slinging piles of dirty laundry and trying to rub the pillow creases out of our cheeks. It belies the stereotype of the sophisticated, sleek, and aloof New Yorker and reveals a common humanity that I find endearing (I have dirty socks; you have dirty socks. Same, same!)

Still, there is a laundry room code of conduct. Avoid eye contact and avert your eyes, lest you rest them on someone's underthings. Remove your items from the machine as soon as possible, to make room for the next person's load. Clean your own lint from the dryer ('cause no one wants to do it for you). And it seems the consequences for ignoring the code are fierce: Today I saw a pair of red lace underpants tacked to the laundry room bulletin board, right underneath the "Meditation Group for Middle School Girls Starting Soon!" sign. Ouch. What offense did my fellow launderer commit to deserve that?