Laundry Room

I run down the stairs, trying to get to my washer before my wet clothes get moved by a stranger. Why am I embarrassed for someone to see the T-shirt my best friend made for me, where our heads are photoshopped on the H2O mermaids?  No time to reconsider; I've already started my commute. I realize I don't think I’ve ever walked down these stairs. I briskly jog down the hall, and to my great surprise, the washer still has time on it. What was the rush for? The timer reads 3 minutes. I slide down the wall. Sitting on the cold laminate, I pull out my phone. The date accosts me. I have exactly five weeks of youth left. The panic that ensues when I look at my calendar, arrests all the focus I have left. 

 I have to make a big decision by Tuesday. But right now, I can't decide whether to have raspberry tea or orange soda with the change I found in the pockets of my jeans, and I can never come to a resolution on if I'm too old to wear braids. I don't feel old. The clothes I have are from middle school, one of the perks of being five-ten since the ninth grade. Most of the sweaters were my sister’s long before they were mine. Just like me, they are starting to show their age. 

The cycle starts. The suds drain out, and the washer starts spinning like my manic head. Lately, when I cover my freckles and iron my hair, people tell me I look happy. It makes me feel weird. I am really happy, like stupid happy, but I find the association unsettling. I think my younger self would be mad that my creams wash over the Irish flecks she earned playing in the hot sun. She would yell at me for running a hot iron over my out-of-control hair to “make it less messy.” Am I bending?

 I can't help but feel I'm always running down the stairs, running out of ramen, and the worst: running out of time. But right now I'm just sitting here. It's nice. Watching the bubbles, I melt on the cold floor under the weight of my calendar. A posh girl in purple corduroys walks in and stands for a moment. Asking, “whose laundry is this?” Saying, “don't you just hate when people leave their stuff sitting here?” I look at the clock and realize I've been sitting for five minutes instead of the three I planned on. I look her way, and with a bashful expression, I give her my apologies. 

I take my clothes, the remnants of a well-spent childhood, and put them in the dryer. I turn it all the way hot for as long as the timer will allow. I like when my clothes get crunchy and stiff from the heat. I walk slowly and thoughtfully up the stairs for what seems like the first time since moving in. I arrive at an unfamiliar door with my name on it;  I don't think I know where home is anymore.  

I can't seem to decide to be brave, decide to love, or decide what I think, but I can decide that I want to wear braids forever because my mom likes it when I do, and that orange soda sounds better than raspberry tea because it reminds me of summer days at the pool with my sister: We were just 15 and our biggest worry was if we had enough Fanta for the whole day in the hot North Carolina sun. I'm a mess, but so is every piece of art I actually want to look at.

I walk through the creaky door frame, into the room I share with my best friend. We  have filled it with books, magazine clippings, and absurd amounts of coffee. I look at the goofy picture on my wall of me and my sister and decide that I don't feel right about painting the face of my middle-school-self  or ironing her frizzy but loveable hair. I am happy with the little life I've made here but something doesn't quite yet feel settled within these four cream colored walls.