As “facilities manager” (my husband Mike’s title for me; I sometimes think my title is “Go-fer”) at our house one of my jobs is dropping off/picking up our family’s dry cleaning. Truthfully, my husband Mike, who works in a formal office in Manhattan, makes most of our family’s “dry cleaning” in the form of dress shirts to be laundered, starched (medium) and hung (not folded) on hangars.
As usual for a Monday morning, I scooped up the laundry bag waiting near the front door and tossed it into the back seat of my daughter’s Tory’s beloved VW Bug Sunny. Tory drove herself to school then I hopped behind the wheel and drove Sunny to our local dry cleaners. Lucky me got a parking space directly across the street from the dry cleaner’s front door. I grabbed the dirty laundry bag and “balance beam-ed” my way up and over the snow piles, arms flailing, to get onto the sidewalk and into the store.
Having seen my dignified approach the owner already had my order ready to go. As I reached for my wallet, he reached for the dirty laundry bag and dumped the contents onto the counter. Working quickly and talking just as fast, he straightened and shook each shirt in his typical automatic reaction as he counted them. . . until he reached for a shirt and came up with a pair of my husband’s underwear, which he promptly flung across the room in a sort of reflexive reaction that equaled the look of shock that raced across his face and just as quickly disappeared behind his “professional” demeanor.
Appalled, my brain registered what went sailing about as fast as my body moved to retrieve the offending item from the establishment’s floor.
“Sorry. So sorry,” I said.
“S’okay,” he replied.
“I don’t know how that got into the bag,” I said as I stuffed the item into my new purse.
With cheeks burning I grabbed Mike’s fresh dry cleaning and slunk out the door.