The Maytag’s dead, and yet I feel nothing. Other people, it seems, are very excited for me to get a new washer, but I don’t get excited over new appliances. New computers, yes, and the Tivo makes my heart go all aflutter. But I really didn’t want to shell out $900 for a new washer and dryer. (It was knocking on death’s door, too.) If I’m putting out that kind of cash, it better involve a flight to somewhere good, like a Caribbean island or Park City, Utah in February.
My husband and I are not what you’d call “early adopters.” Nor are we top-of-the-liners, meaning we don’t need the best, most expensive stuff with the latest and greatest in gadgetry. That’s why both of our cars have more than 100,000 miles on them, and why our TV, a boxy non-flat screen, is older than our children. We generally don’t need all fancy schmancy stuff, or at least, we won’t pay for it. By modern American standards, we are pretty simple folk. My Puritan ancestors and his poor German lineage would be proud.
The Maytag repairman (who, contrary to popular belief, didn’t seem all that lonely) warned us that if we got one of the new fangled front-loading machines, we’d have to relearn how to do laundry. He told us a tale of knobs and settings and warnings: “Never, ever allow coins in that kind of machine.” I blanched at the thought while the sound of coins in the dryer played in my head, and then vetoed the idea. Then we went with the plain vanilla of washer-dryers instead.
Yesterday, the new washer and dryer arrived while I was out coaching a soccer game. Throughout the day, my husband whipped through a week’s worth of laundry, leaving it in clean piles in each bedroom. When I got home, he showed me how the washer has five settings. I shrugged and replied, “But I just need ‘Super Large’.” He sighed, and then looked at our new washer with great concern as if to say, She’s going to kill you, too, and I’m sorry.
Now if one of these fancy new machines washed, dried, folded and put away clothes for me, that would be a different story altogether — a story that’s better than a trip to Park City in February.