Not your father’s way of doing laundry. If your father actually did laundry back in the olden days.

There is a fantastic chill in Alexandria’s Old Town air, and I can only imagine how much chillier it feels further north. In just a little over 24 hours, I will find myself back on Cape Cod— and once I get there, I know I’ll be in full-on Kid Back at Home mode.

The building that I occupied in DC, the laundry was located in the basement. I lost count of how many times I would scorn this amenity, and like a college kid I frequently opted to haul my canvas bag over to the homes of various friends in order to get a load of laundry done for free.

Kid, you have no idea what your mom is thinking…

I think we all need to be a bit more vocal in assuring our youngsters that elements of teenage and even twentysomethingness never really leave us. We don’t exactly ripen like a fantastic cheese or bottle of wine— rather, we simply become more adept at balancing immaturity with actual responsibility.

We might earn a comfortable paycheck, but that doesn’t mean that we won’t say no to using a friend’s gym pass in the name of saving five bucks on the one-day membership fee. Certainly I’ve never done that.

We could be entrusted with piloting multi-million dollar equipment and then go home to shamelessly fill travel mugs with Manhattans and then climb over irate viewers at a movie house where the film has already started. Not that I went out and did that last night or anything.

It may or may not be 9:30AM somewhere. Like in this time zone.

We can manage a division of workers and silently chastise their questionable behavior while simultaneously forking over hundreds of dollars to travel hundreds of miles in the name of experiencing good food or sex. This behavior doesn’t ring a bell in the slightest for me.

So it should make sense then that I’ve spent three years rebelling against the four dollar charge that is demanded of me each and every time I took the elevator to the bowels of my old apartment building. I’d rather drag my mound of clothes outdoors, into my car, and then drive somewhere else so I can settle on a comfy sofa with friends or just my computer to wait a few hours before my towels and super soft bathrobe were once again clean.  Me, the thirty-eight year old with a reliable paycheck— this is something that I do without a second thought.

There are lots of things that we do in the name of meaningful human contact. It doesn’t matter the cost, sometimes it’s the high quality randomness of the experience that makes our questionable behavior so satisfying. Heck, I don’t even think I like the taste of Manhattans.

Fuel for life. Take both at the same time.

I maintain that I am an exhausted introvert, but there is something about seeking the support of my friends’ generous wash and spin cycles that keeps me feeling balanced.  And I’m not just talking about the outcome that is clean black uniform socks and workout gear.

As always, what I will miss most about this place are the foolish and impractical encounters that have made me feel so tightly woven into this community’s fabric. The mark of a successful life lived, in my opinion, comes largely in the time you vest while in the comfort of others.

Like the sixteen year old that still seems to hold court in my brain— tomorrow I will again cram pack two suitcases full of dirty laundry and fly back home for a spell.  Like an excited kid on a road trip, I will get wicked psyched when we pass The Big Blue Bug and then feel sad that I won’t be here when they put the antlers and red Rudolph nose on him come Christmastime. I will have moved back abroad by then. But in the meantime, I’ll appreciate being home.

I’ll explode my belongings up in my old room before pulling on really old University of Vermont sweatpants and then settle into a battle royale of Ice Hockey played on the old Nintendo as my brother and I eat ice cream on the couch. Like the DC laundry visits, these are the moments that always manage to produce the most enjoyment. They are the ones that belie the notion that we adults no longer do kid stuff. Instead, they serve to balance our mature responsibilities and ultimately make getting up to carry out all boring stuff feel bearable.

Yep, I’m ready for the next course.

While I’m not exactly excited to start over with finding a group of people who favor my particular brand of life activities, I am looking forward to whatever is that I stumble upon once I get there. And if the social pool is too highbrow, I won’t be super worried— the chain of wonderfully immature folks I’ve got strung from here to Europe will ensure no shortage of those who’ll be happy to pack a suitcase full of laundry and come to my place for a spin cycle. Whatever we wind up doing, it’ll be worth the trip.