In times of great anxiety, I find comfort in the mechanical, the onerous. That is precisely what hand washing laundry is, a tiny manual labor of repetition—like kneading dough except the reward isn’t a steaming, delicious loaf, but the ability to wear your clothes without offending the noses of everyone else you live with.
For every crotch and armpit I scrub with a bar of unscented hotel soap, I am able to let go of something, if only temporarily. I am able to think less about my aunt, a pediatric pulmonologist who will certainly be affected by what is to come. I am able to think less about my roommate’s boyfriend, who works in the ICU, and the anxiety she must be feeling, though I know she hides it.
This is useful, I tell myself, we are running low on quarters, the washing machines and dryers in this complex only take quarters, it would be dumb to break social distancing just to go to the bank for a roll of quarters, I will ask for quarters on my next grocery run, and hope that they haven’t run out.
Every night I take at least three pieces of clothing from my hamper and set them atop the toilet seat, the prepping area for my wash space. I have been sorting my soiled—that word always makes me think of shitting yourself, but that I promise that is not the case here—laundry into piles by brights, lights, and darks. Anything that smells especially pungent, gets pulled aside for its own isolation in OxiClean. I have been doing indoor workouts with my roommates, so much of our laundry is what you would consider pungent.
This is how you hand wash your clothes, adequately exorcising the stink, without being unkind to them, or roughing them up in a way that will degrade them faster. First, select your washing station. If you have a sink that can plug, even just moderately well, that works fine. Just make sure to wash it very well before, for disinfecting purposes, but also to wash away any residual product. Lots of anti-acne creams and washes, for example, might spot bleach your clothes. A mixing bowl can also work well, in a pinch, for smaller delicates. If you have a basin or a bucket that would work best.
I have never been in a home without washing basins. My mother owns three washing basins. My grandmother owned a washing basin for each bathroom, and multiple in the kitchen. My roommate owns two washing basins. I purchased my washing basin from Amazon. Our apartment is small, so I went with something collapsible that I could store in our little splinter of a closet, the vertical looking ones with tiny shelving, that exist to maximize the uneven corners of the apartment. Sometimes I worry that, in pressing the basin down to close, the silicon will somehow rip, and I will no longer be able to hand wash my clothing. At least not the way I like.
Second, fill your wash space with the soap of your choice. It is best if you have something that will be kind to your hands, that says it can be used as a detergent or “multi-purpose.” In most cases, you should not use more than a teaspoon. (Think about how much detergent you put into a load of laundry in a washing machine, and scale back accordingly to whatever size your wash space is. I don’t have exact numbers here, but your intuition will probably work just fine). You will want the wash space to fill with water a bit before you put the detergent. Swirl it around with your finger, so that it is evenly distributed before you add in your clothes.
Third, add in your clothes. You should not expect the mixture to become extremely frothy or bubbly, though a bit of bubbling is to be expected. I think we associate frothing with cleanliness, when in fact it can mean that there will be soap residue left in your clothes. You can actually tell if you’ve added too much detergent because your clothes will be very stiff when dry. Over time you’ll learn the right amounts.
I was often washed in my grandmother’s basins as a child. It is odd, I think, that I used to be a size that would plop right into this basin.
Fourth, swish around and perhaps gently press and squeeze your clothes in the detergent. Lots of guides to handwashing clothes will call this “agitating” the clothes. The word choice makes me think they’re telling me how to bathe a cat, and that cat is very angry with me. Luckily your clothes should not jump out at you, or try to scratch and bite you. If they do, try to speak with a medical professional.
Fifth, let them soak for just a few minutes, or up to 30 or so minutes. If your sink is draining too fast that’s alright. If you think certain, smellier areas need more attention, you can take a basic bar of soap and rub gently over those areas, maybe sniff test a bit. Repeat a few previous steps.
Every night, I check my hamper and am appeased to find that what was once a mountain of filthy clothes has diminished into a manageable pile. I worry that I am running out of things to wash. I worry what I will do, or how I will feel, when I run out of things to wash.
Sixth, rinse your clothes with medium temperature water—no need to martyr your hands over cold water for the sake of avoiding dye bleeding out. This is the part where personal preference and a bit of art come into play. Only you can decide how many times you want to squeeze a garment before deciding the soap has been washed out. Find a place to hang them, hopefully a ventilated area that gets a reasonable amount of sunlight. Put lotion on your hands, they deserve it.
My drying rack is running out of space. Tomorrow I will approach it with a blow dryer.
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