Women in laundries can act just like men in bars

Help will soon come to a woman standing beside her car with a flat tire. Some gallant gentleman will stop before she can pry off the hubcap.

But why isn’t a man with a load of dirty laundry considered just as worthy of assistance from women at the laundry?

Every day, thousands of inept males stumble through the washing, drying and folding of their clothing (Ha! You call that folded?). I balled up my freshly washed laundry for years at weekly laundry sessions.

Then I found a woman who owned a washer and dryer and asked her to marry me. Now I fold at home. (Ha! You call that folded?)

Back when I was a bachelor, it was plain that women’s hearts were getting harder every time I went to the laundry.

Women in laundries behave like men in bars. They talk loud and laugh a lot.

Women doing laundry often shout across the room at each other. They sometimes make remarks with sexual innuendoes.

They exhibit every type of male saloon behavior except for buying a guy a wash.

I was usually intimidated into silence by these raucous females, but I tried to prove my cool by displaying skilled folding techniques, like doing the “snap,” which is done by holding the cleaned garment and with a whiplike wrist action making it snap authoritatively before folding.

All the women do it. I believe the purpose is to declare a territory so that others respect your folding area.

It’s like a lion roaring to clear out the competition.

After completing the “snap,” I discreetly balled up the piece of clothing and gently placed it in my laundry basket.

Cindi, the owner of my old neighborhood laundry, walked through my laundry territory to see if there were any edges or corners aligned on my balled-up bed sheets, and when there were not, she pointed at my work and remarked, “This is very nice. You could work anywhere as a pro folder.”

If you could hear the sarcasm that dripped off her words, then you would know that her remark was meant to be cruel. She had no intention of hiring me at her laundry.

But she did make a serious offer to hire me to amuse her female patrons. Apparently I might have been a big draw.

She said women would have fun watching me fold clothes.

They could make wisecracks, laugh it up and slap each other on the back, and maybe even wager on my skills.

She and Liz (Cindi’s heartless assistant) rehearsed this cruel scenario in front of me one day as I waited for my clothes to dry.

Cindi: “I’ve got a fiver that says he’ll fold his bedsheets into a pyramid shape today!” (I favored the pyramid.)

Liz: “Ooh, going out on a limb?” (More sarcasm.)

Cindi: “With some socks inside the pyramid?”

Liz: “How many?”

Cindi: “Four. And none matching.”

Liz: “Well, I’ll bet he folds the towels while they are wet … and he won’t have any undershorts to wash.”

Cindi: “I’ll take your money. He’s gotta have undershorts to wash. He only does laundry once a week.”

Liz: “He’s wearin’ the only pair he owns!”

Their scenario ended with peals of feminine laughter.

See how gross women can get in a laundry?

When they were done laughing, I asked Cindi, “Why does a woman with a flat tire get help but a man with dirty laundry does not?”

“I change my own flat tires,” Cindy answered, “and men are too screwed up to ask for help when they need it.”

Liz and Cindi did a couple of high-fives and butt bumps while shouting something that sounded like, “Whoa, baby.”

I put the pyramid of wet towels in my basket and slipped out. I did not want to be there at closing time, not with all those vulgar women.