Remember the Giant Pile of Laundry? Today, instead of wearing her usual brown velour bell-bottoms, she wore a slinky pink dress with some big flowers printed on it near the bottom. Not sure it went well with the giant puffy jacket and overstuffed backpack, but we’ll overlook that for the moment.
Train arrives in Seattle and she bolts out the door as usual, taking full advantage of the freedom and mobility afforded to her by her summer attire. Her gait remains the same–hunched over, lumbering along, clenched fists, fully flexed wrists, and an arm swing reminiscent of bigfoot. One characteristic that always caught my attention is the way she carries her arms as they swing. With her fists pointing outward, she only swings her arms forward and never rearward past her hips, and her elbows are somewhat hyperextended as though she’s trying to rub the insides of her forearms together. With the 30-degree hunch and zombie-like stagger it looks like she’s doing some kind of crude “Mashed Potato” dance all the way up to the stairs.
The climb up the stairs is usually equally elegant, but today was something special. About a quarter of the way up the stairs–and I shit you not–her underwear falls down to her ankles. “Plop”. It didn’t sneak it’s way down; it simply appeared as if from nowhere. What was already an awkward stair-climbing style had leveled-up with a tripping hazard tangled around her feet. What does this Giant Pile of Laundry do? She keeps trucking up the stairs like a boss, that’s what!
She climbs about four more steps and without missing a clumsy beat, she reaches down and starts pulling up her underpants. Her velocity slows slightly as she struggles to hoist her unmentionables back into place–which is awkward enough when you’re in the privacy of your own home–but how does a lady pull up her drawers without hiking up her dress to do so? I have no idea, and I’m pretty sure she didn’t either.
Last I saw the Giant Pile of Laundry, I was passing her on the stairs as her pace slowed then stopped as she struggled to wrestle Victoria’s Secret back into place without allowing the hem of her dress to rise more than six-inches.
My advice to you, O’ Giant Pile of Laundry, stick to the velour track pants.