The Last Dance

God, how I loathe you washer.  I seriously do.

It's like you have something against me, like you're trying to get back at me for those hours and hours of relentless abuse you've been dealt.  But I didn't do it.  I'm not the one that stuffed 17 pairs of jeans into you.  I'm not that one that crammed 89 towels into you.  It wasn't me.  So, tell me.  Why MUST you insist on hurting ME? 

I'm sick of chasing your ass around the laundry room.  It's old.  I try to treat you with the respect you deserve.  Weekly I wash you and shine you up with Windex.  I take the cap off your agitator and scrub down your insides (and they do NOT smell good, I might add).  I defend you when others say harsh things about you.  They have called you "crap" and "junk" and threatened to replace you.  I stand up in your defense - always.  "It's been a good machine.  It didn't cost much, and we've gotten 6 solid years out of it - 15-20 loads a week that washer has handled." 

But then, you pull this shit on me.  Time and time again.  Today - over a SINGLE pair of softball pants.  They weren't heavy.  You weren't overloaded.  You weren't tired.  It was only your 6th load of the day - and this is the fucking respect I got from you:

Now.  I've had it.  I'm SICK.OF.YOUR.SHIT.  I can't take it anymore.  I'm too old and too tired and weak to continue to put you in your place.  If Daughter #2 hadn't alerted me to the fact that you were out dancing around the laundry room, you would have likely shoved your way out that window and made a clean break.  Lucky for you, I have her.  You're not going anywhere old friend.  So you might as well just BUCK UP and know your place - against the wall - wedged between the utility sink and dryer.  Any other location other than that is, well... UNACCEPTABLE.

You've been warned.