As I’ve grown older, I’ve learned there are certain shortcuts you can take in life. I buy a fruit tray for parties instead of cutting the fruit myself. I get cash back at the grocery store cause it saves me a trip to the ATM. And when buying clothes, I avoid ones that need to be dry cleaned. Like the plague.
Whenever I try on a really smart looking dress or a skirt that fits just right, I instantly check the tag for cleaning instructions, hoping to see the words ‘Machine Wash Cold.' If, however, it says ‘Dry Clean Only,’ I dejectedly remove the perfect garment and hang it back on the rack.
Life’s too short to have to worry over dry cleaning.
For example, earlier this week I finally dropped some clothes off at the dry cleaners. I had a few extra minutes after work, and a few extra dollars in the bank, so I decided to make the trek before driving home. It's amazing the list of things I'll make special trips for—a Starbucks run on sleepy mornings, Target any time (I like to just hang out there), to use a coupon or gift card before it burns a hole in my pocket—but dry cleaning isn't one of them.
The aggravation of driving a minute out of my way (dramatic? a little...), however, isn't the worst part of the dry cleaning hassle. No. It's the shame associated with the length of time between visits.
My neighborhood dry cleaner, though modest in appearance, apparently contains cutting-edge technology. They keep a detailed record of when I last visited and what I brought in for cleaning. I suppose it's meant to be efficient with customer service, but it makes me feel inadequate.
During this week's errand, the lady at the counter pulled out my pretty navy blue, eyelet bridesmaid dress, squinted at it, squinted at the computer screen, looked at me and said, "Last time you were in you were wearing this to a wedding. That was March. Did the wedding not happen?"
Taken aback by her question (and trying to figure out if there's a camera recording this interaction), I replied that the wedding had in fact happened.
Dry cleaning lady: "Did you clean it yourself afterward?"
Me: "No."
Dry cleaning lady: "Did you not wear it?"
Me: "I wore it. That's why I'm having it cleaned."
Dry cleaning lady: "Did you wear it a second time before cleaning it?"
Not like it's any of her business, but...
Me: "No."
Dry cleaning lady, (who I have now named Judgy McJudgerson): "Why did it take you so long to bring it in?"
I shrugged. What was this, the third degree? My cheeks were now probably a brilliant shade of crimson.
She then clucked her tongue at me like a mother would, and chided, "Clothes should be cleaned promptly, you know."
I know, I know. I told myself that month after month, as I shoved the shopping bag full of dry cleaning around my closet, as I stumbled over the bag while searching for other things, as I threw it in my trunk a month ago because I was moving and these garments had no place among my packed or stored clean clothes.
She finally rung everything up. I hurriedly paid, rushing out of there as fast as I could. When I got to my car, I looked at my receipt. For just $23.45, I would not only get my clothes dry cleaned, but was properly humiliated and fueled with further conviction to never again buy clothing that says "dry-clean-only."