Adrienne Nadeau

I’m contemplating getting my doctorate.

I’m contemplating this because the other night, as I was sitting in my room at 2 in the morning, doing my homework, and eating a bowl of peanut butter and jelly for dinner, I thought to myself, maybe I can’t  survive outside of academia.


I like to think my inability to be responsible  is adorable. It probably isn’t.

There is no greater example of my irresponsibility than this weekend, when I angered the gods of laundry. I have never seen a clearer, more obvious example of divine retribution than this weekend.

To begin with, I should tell you that I haven’t done my laundry in about 4 weeks. I specifically built a wardrobe that can last through a 3-week laundry cycle because I know that I hate doing laundry. I believe being responsible isn’t doing things you hate, it’s just adjusting to and preparing for your hatred.

3 weeks go by. I still don’t want to do laundry. So I give up underwear and start building creative outfits, pulling out the b-list ensembles. This is actually working well, and after I get through week 4 it becomes something of a challenge. I feel as if I’m in a competition against my laundry. Fuck you, laundry. I don’t need to do you. I can beat you. Because apparently wearing mini skirts, no underwear, and mismatched socks in November in Chicago is winning.  P. wanted to start a bet on when I would actually break down. We discussed a pledge drive.

This past Friday even I was admitting that it was getting ridiculous (pathetic?). I decided to suck it up and do laundry over the weekend.

Saturday the laundry room broke. I don’t mean a machine or two break. The entire system for laundry broke down. Not a single machine in our building was working. Fine. I could wait till Sunday.

Sunday the laundry room was still broken. I called to find out when it would be fixed. Most likely Monday afternoon. Not only do I have an afternoon class on Monday, but I would have to attend that class naked if I didn’t get some laundry done. J, my roommate, was horrified by my predicament. “Do you know how long those machines could be shut down before you noticed? NOW you need to do laundry?”

Yes. I really really needed to do laundry.

I ended up filling a plastic bucket with hot water and laundry detergent and washing 2 pairs of jeans, 4 shirts, and 5 pairs of underwear in my shower. I hung them up on the shower rod, praying they would dry by morning.

You’re never more aware of the mistakes you’ve made, or how determined the gods of laundry are to fuck you over, then when you’re sitting in the floor of your shower, washing clothes on Sunday night, and accidentally dying your pink bathroom carpets blue with detergent stains.

I was almost impressed with the epicness of my laundry fail.

Anyway, everything dried by Monday morning. Wearing underwear again is a nice change of pace. So is being warm, now that I have appropriate clothes. P. & E. were both amused by the horror that is my life.

These are the moments when I appreciate and loathe the fact that I’m single and a student again. These are the kinds of problems responsible adults with jobs and stable relationships don’t have. But it’s also uniquely wonderful to be a bohemian.

I’m calling it “bohemian” instead of “dirty”. Humor me, okay?

. . . and to think, I could be Dr. Sunshine one day. This is it, people, I am getting advanced degrees, teaching your children, and contemplating imparting my knowledge to impressionable college students.

Kinda makes you wonder about the whole system, huh?