Laundry, reading, and how they relate.

Some of my fellow students like - and also like to laugh a bit of - the fact that i have found my own sweet spot for reading - the laundry room. Most of them don't really seem to get why. It's an ice cold room of concrete, with a lot of loud, changing noises. People coming and going all the time. Terrible chairs. A table that is not only far to high to in any ergonomic way combine with the use of the terrible chairs, but also most of the time taken up by undergrads rolling up another cigarette to go outside and be hip with. Because they are hip. Hipsters from head (with freaky hair-do's) to toes (not covered by socks or practical shoes, but some strange things that if anything should probably belong to the opposite sex.) Despite all of this, i have claimed that "it's just a place i can concentrate". Now, i think i might have a better answer to why i can concentrate.

All of the things above already bored me after fifteen minutes.

And, since everything else going on in there is so not interesting, apart from all the incredibly, not to say surprisingly stupid (in their interaction with technology FAR more easily mastered than their iPhone 9G's, iPad 3's, Kindle's, and what not) undergrad-hipsters. They always find new ways of making a complete ass of themselves, and those of you who know me also know a thing or two about how i react to people who make an ass of themselves, however unintentional - if the ass-making is a total one. This, of course, makes me a bit mad at them. But believe it or not, i can't seem to find it in my heart to be properly mad at them, mad enough to actually tell them "seriously..." and give them a look that should make them feel like the stupidest thing to exist since Miss Teen South Carolina 2007. I let it pass (maybe just with a little notice on facebook). But only because i (yes, actually i do) realise that they can't do anything else with their total lack of practical experience, than to build on it. (I should say, they build more on the lack, not on the practical part.)

However, since the reception in the concrete room filled with washing machines and dryers is too poor, and my patience is as long as the width of my new favorite fine-point pen, i normally just laugh it up inside and read the entire last page of the book i'm reading all over again, since i "read" it while doing all of the above.

(At this point, i kind of realise that i shouldn't be reading far too well in that dreadful place, and that i absolutely did not really explain "why i can concentrate". But in fact, this takes up just a few minutes in total, of my hour and a half spent freezing in there.)

I shall call it: Laundreading!

In a few hours, i will pay the laundry room another visit to once again re-test my concentration and reading skills. May the hipsters of tomorrow bless me with awkward silence and flawless laundry skills. Hah! And stop smoking, i know for a fact that it is actually possible.