A couple of days before my 33rd birthday, I hauled my dirty laundry from my third floor walk-up to my car to the laundromat down the street. The closest I've ever gotten to having to use a laundromat was the shared laundry rooms in college and those were always just a few steps away, under the same roof, so I don't even count that, not really.
And yet. Here I am, solidly into my third decade, dabbling in detergent and panties -- all in public. Who is this girl, anyway? It makes me feel young, schlepping my sweaters down the alley, though not necessarily in the "at heart" kind of way. More in the "what's your major?" kind of way (but that ain't all bad either...just don't look at my gray hair).
Honestly, I don't mind the laundromat. It smells good, there's a bench outside that's always in the sun and the WiFi signal is strong. Washing my American Eagle jeans in a Museum District laundromat is never something I thought I'd be doing at this time in my life, but...there's a lot of things in my life right now I could have never imagined (oh, the good and the bad). But isn't that always the way?
At least now at 33 years old, I think I'm finally happy with my eyebrows. That's progress, people.