Terror on the merry-go-round . . .

Sunday is laundry day in this neck of the woods. All my clothes were separated and waiting their turn for the joyride of their existence . . . spinning and frolicking among the suds and water. They were so excited. The darks . . . always the pushiest of the bunch strong armed their way to the head of the line and obediently hopped, one by one, into the drum, giggling with excitement. Closing the door behind them, I filled the drawer with detergent and started the machine. You could hear them kibitzing . . hold tight now . . . keep your eyes closed and your arms up . . . don't look down . . . oh, they were having a ball. The faster the drum sped, the happier came their voices until somewhere during the final spin, something went terribly awry. I could hear the terror inch into their cries, they were holding on tightly to each other . . . starting to panic. The knocking inside the drum becoming deafening. Both the 9TS and I ran to see what the commotion was . . wondering if our dear winter woolies were safe. Finally, the jack hammering stopped and I quickly opened the door. At first, the darks were all stunned, sitting there in a damp huddled mass. As I gently lifted each one out in turn, and gave them a careful shake to bring them back to life, little bits of plastic rained down onto the floor.

With all the little fellows tucked in the warm, safe cocoon of the dryer, the 9TS started his investigation and shortly discovered the entire drum was out of line and huge chunks of plastic had been shaved off the edge and spewed all over. The 9TS's bathrobe quickly announced he really was not so dirty after all, and the whites took off for points unknown. Only the towels did not budge. Knowing their life to be a utilitarian one, they understood, should they be damaged, they would be resurrected as a floor mop . . . a dust rag . . . a shoe polisher . . . all well respected occupations. But, alas, there would be no second ride today.