Imperfect Prose: Laundromat Lessons

Sweat lights my face aglow before I've barely begun the task of washing, rinsing, repeating. Finding out of order signs on almost every machine does little to excite me about the task at hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her, cringe inside because I know her though I've never met her. She is that woman. That woman in long denim, church hair, no makeup, and my insides hurt as memories of unwelcome scrutiny surface. 


Memories of church ladies staring me up and down when they think I'm not looking, picking me apart because a pastor's wife doesn't say what I say, dress how I dress, look how I look. Of being verbally shredded to every parishioner for things I didn't do, things they thought I should do, shouldn't do, would do, wouldn't do . . . Of hearing words bounce back to me uninvited that my husband was leading the young people of our church into apostasy when I knew my husband had a heart of service, of love. 


And, the mere sight of her makes my heart hurt again, though I thought those wounds were healed. 


So, I work hard to avoid her gaze as I work. I don't want to see the look of disapproval again, don't want to see I don't measure up in all of their eyes. Don't want any of it, any of her. And, I know I'm wrong, know I should be bigger than this, like I was all those years ago when they saw me as less. But, I don't have to do that anymore. I told myself I was done the day we left church work doors behind. But, here I am again, bound by them, though they are miles and miles away.


And, then she says, "Ma'am?" and I turn on my sweet self, the self I always knew how to summon even in the darkest of days. I go to her, ready for bad things. Ready to see that look . . . at me . . . in her eyes.


But, she doesn't scold me with her gaze. She simply offers me her dryers, says they run hotter, says every  bit of money saved helps, and she almost brings me to tears with her smile, with her non-judgment. And, I hurt again inside. But, this time, it's with my own judgment, my own reverse discrimination, my own willingness to write her off because of her look when I know that pain, know it well. 


And then I turn to gratitude because any place can be sacred if I let it.