Adventures with Laundry Boy

It has long been an unspoken rule of my apartment complex that people do not talk in the laundry room unless absolutely necessary. Yesterday I figured out why. Decision: The laundry room is not a good place to try to make friends.

Random guy in the laundry room (from here on out referred to as "Arnold" even though I never got his name): Man, it's cold outside.

Me (folding a huge t-shirt with a hole in it, turning my back to him as I assume this is the end of the conversation): Yeah.

Arnold (putting various wet clothes into his dryer): So what apartment do you live in?

Me (thinking "oh no, he's trying to have legitimate conversation and I'm working on this pile of t-shirts," going to my dryer to pull out something feminine so that he doesn't take me as a pile of t-shirts person, deciding on a brown dress): 328.

Arnold (fiddling with his quarters, depositing them into his dryer): Ah, a third floor-er! How's it living up there?

Me (thinking "what kind of a question is that?" flapping the dress in the air to get the wrinkles out, laying it on the counter, going for a skirt): Umm...it's good. Top of the world, really.

Arnold (leaving): Haha, I bet.

Me (grateful he's leaving so I can fold my underwear without a male right there): See ya.

I get back to business and am heavily involved in a tricky entanglement of a thong and tank top straps when he unexpectedly comes back with another load.

Arnold: So what time does your ward meet for church?

Me (frantically throwing the tangled mess back into the dryer, pulling out a pair of jeans which is far less uncomfortable to work with in front of him): 9am.

Arnold (loading his clothes into his dryer practically one item at a time for no apparent reason): We did that last year, but now we have 1pm.

I pull a sweater out. A pair of socks and a pair of panties stick to it long enough to get out of my dryer, then fall to the ground. He notices something fall and reaches down meaning to help, realizes there's a lacy pair of panties involved, springs back up as if it were a tarantula, and CRACK! He hits his head hard on the open dryer door.

Arnold (acting as if nothing had just happenned, quickly dumping the rest of his wet clothes into his dryer): Well, see ya around!

Me (trying not to laugh because he's trying so hard to play it cool): Are you okay?

Arnold (briskly exiting the room): Huh? Oh, yeah, I'm fine. See ya!