A few minutes ago, I began putting my newly-washed clothes into “Quentin,” my favorite dryer at my nauseatingly-cute laundromat.  I was about halfway through my load when a woman stalked over and told me she was already using “Quentin.”  I pointed out that there had been no clothes in it before I began putting in my items.  She then responded with “Well, I claimed it, and my washer is almost done.”

Wet sock clutched in hand, I stared back at her.  Here was a 45-year-old woman basically calling “shotgun” on a dryer.  There were at least 5 other open dryers that she could have used, and a critical mass of my clothing had already taken up residence inside “Quentin.” (That sounds so pervy.)

Now, normally I would have been nice (you say pushover, I say nice) and would have just moved my stuff to another dryer.  But, as you know from my last post, first impressions don’t mean that much to me, and this woman and her sense of entitlement just pissed me off.  So I stood up tall (stop laughing), threw my Bounce sheet into “Quentin,” hit start and said “Sorry, I’m using this one, but I think ‘Peter’ is open.”

Not quite the razor sharp remark I had hoped for, but on the spot it was the best I could do.  I walked out of that laundromat – head held high – to the woman leaning over to her companion and muttering something about “no apology” and “selfish.”

Meccanized…though I’m a little worried that when I go back down my clothes will have met some terrible fate in payment for my insolence.