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Erica's WLS Book |
For Darn Good Writing Ask Erica THE DEEP INNER MEANING OF DRY CLEANING
My mother, who never bought retail, firmly believed that dry cleaning was somehow sinful, an unconscionable luxury indulged in only by the rich. People like us—which included everyone without inherited wealth—washed. My mother made an occasional foray to the do-it-yourself dry cleaning machine, but everything came out wrinkled and reeked of cleaning fluid for weeks. Mom, however, often neglected to follow her own advice. She was always buying things labeled “dry clean only” and then washing them. She’d say with an air of complete authority, as if she really knew what she was talking about, “I’m sure you can wash this in cold water and Woolite.” One day she took every sweater I owned, many of them 100% wool, including one she’d bought for me herself in Ireland, and not only put them through the washer, but the dryer. This happened twenty years ago and I still don’t understand why she did it. Revenge for my leaving home perhaps? After spending days frantically trying to re-block the sweaters by pinning them to my rug, I finally gave them to a needy six-year-old. During adolescence I lived in fear of spilling. I could barely listen to the dinner table conversation, much less talk, so intent was I on lifting fork to mouth in painstaking slow motion. I knew that a big dollop of grease on my bosom would be a dead giveaway that I wasn’t the mysterious, alluring creature I was pretending to be, but merely a slob in mufti. When I got to college, however, I fell in with a politically correct crowd who thought it was excessively bourgeois to worry about spilling on your fatigues. I finally stopped worrying and started enjoying my food. If I came home with mysterious spots which wouldn’t come out in the wash, I didn’t think it would matter after the revolution. Plus, I’d inherited mom’s self-righteousness about dry cleaning, except I considered it part of the capitalist conspiracy to exploit the workers. Long after ditching my last pair of fatigues, however, I was still a confirmed machine wash, drip dry, colors-that-won’t-show-dirt sort of person. No matter how much I wanted to buy that mauve silk shirt or white wool suit, I would gaze wistfully and put it back on the rack. I wondered if I had a self-esteem problem. How could I deny myself the clothing that I longed for? Dry cleaning might have remained as foreign to me as beluga caviar if I hadn’t gotten involved with Tony, a dry cleaner. With his professional eye, Tony noticed every lurking spot and stain. He’d sneak into my closets, secretly remove my favorite garments, and show up for our next date carrying hangers full of bright, unstained clothing, with little puffs of tissue paper plumping up the shoulders. This was a thrilling new experience. Those stains had been there so long they’d become part of my “look.” It never occurred to me they could actually be removed. The solution? No, I did not find some miraculous over-the-counter spot remover. I got married, left New York City, moved to the country, became a mom and started working at home. Now everyone I run into at the local Shoprite, Wal-Mart and PTA meeting has stains on their sweats. Fashionable attire is not a priority in my neck of the woods. One day I drove down Main Street and realized that the only dry cleaners in town had a “For Rent” sign in the window. Closed for lack of business no doubt. What a relief! I don’t have to feel guilty anymore because I lack sufficient self-esteem to shell out the big bucks for dry cleaning. The deep inner meaning of dry cleaning? Who cares! (This essay is available for purchase) |
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