Our washing machine leaks. A slow watery crawl from the base of the machine to a dozen outdated paint cans stashed under a table. Not large, but it grows with every wash.
Actually, this problem began one year ago. Exactly. I found the repairman’s bill. (Yes, there are still a few repairmen and, yes, he’s the same repairman I’ve used for years, not only for the washing machine but the refrigerator too). Aaron replaced the rubber rim. Or gasket. Or something or other that manages spin and whatever Aaron did, it worked. Until now. Although Aaron warned me. He said our Maytag was a war horse and that whenever it gave up the ghost we’d be in trouble, like everyone else, we’d be forced to buy a machine that was digital. And that none of them lasts. Not like the old ones.
We’ve had the Maytag for 25 years.
I’m writing about this because one, I want to be writing, and two, I want to be writing about something entirely other than the washing machine but the washing machine problem needs to be solved.
We—my husband and I—went shopping for a new machine late Saturday. We had wanted to go Christmas shopping but no. Yes, first-world problem, you can be sure. Nevertheless. We considered two models, very different in style and capacity. The next morning we went online—most people would go online before driving to the store I think but we are who we are—and by the end of the day we’d reached a decision.
We don’t need a capacity of 3.3 cubic feet and certainly not 5.2.
2.2 is what we’ve had for twenty-five years, 2.2 is just fine. And we don’t need to wash 17 bath towels all at one time.
We don’t care about app capability. We don’t want to do our laundry by phone.
Wanting to write about something entirely other than washing machines . . . wanting to think about something entirely other than washing machines . . . I asked my husband to call the store Monday morning and cinch the deal. This year I had the hot water heater replaced and the roof repaired, along with the boiler and main water line connection and at least one other thing that I can’t remember. He understands. Because I’ve been wanting to write about this dark time, this end of the year, this season of lights, when I go in and out of illumination and shadow, joy and doubt, because one year is ending, and where do I find myself, and a new one is opening.