The Intensity of Washing

The washing machine and I are having a language barrier problem. It’s holding my clothes hostage, but I don’t know what it wants from me in order to get them back.

The maid comes on Wednesday, but today is Monday and my linen pants are too baggy to wear another day without being laundered. How hard could it be to wash my own laundry? I do it all the time at home. On approaching the machine, I’m comforted, nay tricked, by the two inch letters reading: EASY. This has proved to be the understatement of the day. Finding Radio shack yesterday was easier than washing a small load of whites.

This machine is new, clean, top of line with three knobs for: Nivel de agua, which means water level, (there’s a little symbol that looks kind of like a wave) Temperaturas, need I say more, and Intensidad de Lavado, intensity of washing, meaning delicates, extra dirty etc… I congratulate myself on knowing the proper settings: Medio, Manchas ligero, and Normal. I press the button reading Inicio, nothing, I press it again nada. I then start jabbing it repeatedly. After praying for serenity, I realize it isn’t plugged in. I Plug in black cord, lights come on, but hey what does that mean: Ciclos ecologicos? Ahh! It’s good for the environment, but wait there are more choices. Words I can’t comprehend: Remojo, Enjugar Exprimir and Lava. So once again I return to jabbing the selección button until the light is under the one word I understand, Lava, wash.

Whew, the machine begins to fill with water, so I add detergent, clothes and shut the lid. I hear it click softly behind indicating the safety lock is on, and I go inside to study.

Once inside I notice it is one o’clock, only an hour until siesta. After studying for a half hour, I assume my laundry is ready for the dryer. Boy was I wrong. As I approach I notice the mocking red light glaring at me like some devil from the underworld of washing, and there my close sit in a tepid gray pool of soapy water. It’s at this point I return to mashing buttons and muttering, “I just want clean clothes. I just want clean clothes.” I realize all this button pushing is the equivalent of screaming English at a foreigner and expecting them to understand, and like a foreigner the washer begins to shake it’s head. “Hooray” I celebrate the spin cycle, but this time I’m too cleaver to turn my back on the machine. I watch through the tempered glass top as it first drains then spins, then adds water, then spins, then adds water, then spins. It’s an endless cycle. I stand there watching becoming motion sick, when I decide it’s time to take matters into my own hands.

I push pause and then poke the red eyed monster until it selects exprimir. “Why not?” I think. This entire episode has been an experiment. Again with the spinning and spinning, I wait with my finger above the pause button should more water spit out into the machine. It stops, testing my patience. The door is still locked, so what do I do. Turn the fucker off. That’ll show you. Ha, no electricity no lock, or so one would believe. It’s at this point I contemplate running out into the street with a pleading, “Ayudame, ayudame” but what do I tell the person who decides to help. I accept defeat. With a glimmer of hope in my heart, I plug the machine back in wishing it will forgive my endless poking and cursing. Maybe just maybe, the machine will decide to relinquish its control of my clothing before the maid arrives on Wednesday.

I come inside look at the clock that reads 2:51 and think, “Tequila, now would be a good time to buy some tequila.” faintly I hear the chug-chug whirl of the machine and the faint whisper of a click. I charge at the door like Don Quixote attacking a windmill and rip the lid up before it decides to lock again. Hugging my clothes to my chest, I turn to the dryer and breath a sigh of relief for it reads: Whirlpool with end of cycle signal.