It all comes out in the laundry

It happens every few weeks. I'll open my closet to dress myself in the morning, and notice that all my sexiest clothing is missing from the rack, skeletal plastic hangers marking the errant articles' usual positions in the line up.

I know where they've run off to, but I prefer not to think about that corner of my closet until it's absolutely necessary. It's like a halfway-house for down-on-their-luck wardrobes, where cheese-stained, wadded slacks snuggle next to sweaters reeking of cigarette smoke from a bar, and both are buried under stacks of used-up athletic socks too hideous to describe. These clothes are tired and destitute; they yearn for the sudsy release of a wash cycle, the ecstasy of a rinse and spin that I refuse them. Eventually, owing to either the meager selection of clean clothing the smell from the forbidden corner, or some combination thereof, I have to give in and declare a laundry day.

Saturday was such a day. Disappointingly, a call to Guinness informed me that the pile of dirty clothes in my closet was only the world's third tallest, but the world's a big place, with lots of laundry, and third place is nothing to sneeze at.

In any case, I spent the better part of the day slowly reducing the pile to a mere shade of its former glory, and contemplating the subject of my labor all the while. The more I thought, the more I realized the ritual of laundry, tedious and mundane as it is, is rife with cultural subtext and taboos.

For example, when is it appropriate to empty a machine of another person's clothing? Before you answer "always," consider: What if there's no clean counter space or empty basket? What if they left a bottle of detergent or a row of quarters as placeholder? What if the content of said machine comprises a dozen identical, bright-teal leotards with flowery monograms on the chest? These are all issues the diligent clothes-washer must be prepared to face, and the consequences of a wrong decision can be dire.

Case in point: flashback to 2001, McCarty Hall's second-floor laundry room, 2 a.m. I need a dryer, and both sit idle, full of freshly fluffed clothing. My personal laundry philosophy can be described as fierce individualism -- if a machine is done and its contents' owner isn't around, he or she forfeits all rights of complaint when I move stuff around. The room is empty, so accordingly I start unloading the top dryer, which is commonly known to be the better of the two. I'm about halfway through, transporting a pair of polka-dotted panties from machine to ironing board, when in walks their owner. We both freeze, me with the panties held out at arm's length, as if I were admiring them as great art. I still haven't forgotten the horrified look on that girl's face, nor the singularly awkward exchange that followed.

The system broke down that day, and although I haven't since been caught in such a compromising situation laundry-wise, the memory of it still resonates in me. I still cling to my opportunist's view of machine sharing, but now I take great pains to ensure my crimes go unseen.

The laundry room in my current apartment building is not nearly as busy as the ones in the dorms, so the chance of a faux pas is lower, but it doesn't pay to take chances. A quick glance up and down the hallway before attempting a risque transfer is a reasonable precaution, and much better than the alternative -- the last thing I need is to be caught by one of my neighbors with her lacy unmentionables in hand.