I think the older I’ve gotten, the more patience I have. But not every day.
There she was in the laundry room yesterday morning—this woman who lives in my building who doesn’t think I know how to do my own laundry.
“No, no, no!” she screamed after I took my clothes out of the washing machine, transferring them to my laundry basket, and then closing the washing machine lid. “You leave the lid up so others will know it’s not being used!”
“Oh, OK,” I said correcting my mistake immediately and opening the lid back up. “I’m sorry.”
I went over to a dryer and started to put my clothes inside it. I looked over at my neighbor who was standing there shaking her head at me.
“Which one?” I asked.
“Which wrist would you like me to slit?”
She looked at me in horror, clearly not understanding sarcasm.
“Maybe I’ll ask the maintenance guy to see if he has any extra rope,” I said. “Hanging would be less messy.”
With her mouth wide open, my neighbor stormed out of the laundry room. Apparently she didn’t have any laundry to do herself—just on patrol.
For good measure, I walked over to the washing machine I’d been using and closed the lid.
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