The Laundry Mat

Whenever times are tough, I try to remember when they were tougher. I try to remember everything we've been through and remind myself that I should be grateful for what we have now. I really am trying.

When I first met my husband we were really poor. I was in the midst of my addiction and he was a fresh immigrant. Again. He had two roommates and I didn't have electricity. Money was tight and rent was more important. Food was more important, drugs were much more important, than lights. I always did have priorities.

And so I would get my quarters ready.

We certainly didn't have a washer and dryer and would go down to the laundry mat on the corner to wash our clothes once a week. It was never like that episode of Friends where Rachel feels as though she's dominated life on her own when she takes back her laundry basket from that vindictive troll. It never gave me that sense of independence. No, when we trudged down to the laundry mat on Mesa Drive and Southern each Sunday, I always felt lethargic.

It was even worse when we couldn't afford to go to the laundry mat at all. There were times that we didn't have gas or bus money and would need to use the washers inside of our apartment complex. I would get our quarters together and go downstairs and wash everything. Most weeks it was a luxury to pay for the dryer and so instead I would wash our clothes in the washing machine and then take them upstairs and hang them all out to dry on the balcony. When times were really tough, we didn't have any spare quarters. So I would wash by hand in the bath tub before I hung everything out to dry.

My now-husband was just fresh off the line in those times and had grandeur American dreams. The thought of his significant-other hanging out her intimates for all to see was not a part of his vision. It was practically the ultimate embarrassment for him. Our apartment complex was split into two sections, the front was the shape of a horseshoe. We lived in that front section and there was an unused pool and grassy knoll in the middle of it all.

And so when I hung our unmentionables to dry on the front balcony of our third story apartment, everyone could see. To me it was the logical solution given our financial situation. To my husband, it was the stamp of failure. The complex on Mesa Drive and Broadway in Arizona was comprised almost entirely of immigrants. Everyone was struggling. Yet no one hung their clothes outside to dry.

Except that crazy gringa.

This was the first of our cultural clashes in the US and quite possibly what made Ray fall for me and hate me at the same time. I was everything he had attempted to leave behind in Mexico. And at the same time, I was everything he strived to be. I was a survivor. Although I always say I'll be the first to die in the apocalypse (with which I am semi-obsessed) the truth is that I will most likely last quite a while. I don't know why, but I have an uncanny way of surviving through the most fucked up situations. Sometimes it's as simple as figuring out how to clean our clothes without any money. Sometimes it's so much more than that.

Life has thrown us curve balls, that's for sure. And let me tell you, Mexico has been the least of my worries when I look at the grand scheme of things. And yet I am still here, still standing, still swearing, still loving.

Still keeping his clothes clean.