Requiem for a Washing Machine

 

Dear GE Profile Washing Machine:

Your time of death was 4:30 pm on June 13. You came with the brand new condo I bought 16 years ago, and faithfully washed all my rowing and gym gear on cold water, gentle cycle. In recent weeks, I could hear you making a sick sounding noise, and last week I had to put the sheets and pillow cases back for an extra spin because they were sopping wet. Your front loading door had to be lifted in order to latch, but if you worked, you worked.

A washing machine has always played an important role in my life. I still remember being a four year old at our summer house and watching my grandma use a machine that required putting the wet towels through a hand ringer before hanging them up to dry in the sun. To me that ringer looked like a toy I wanted to try.

Spending my early years in a big apartment building in Jackson Heights, I remember Mom getting a Whirlpool washing machine. We were told to keep it a secret, because under the terms of our lease washing machines were prohibited. I guess the landlord worried about a washing machine flooding multiple apartments.

Fast forward to late 2006, and my husband Dennis and I were planning on leaving my house and moving to a condo. For him, two garage parking spaces was essential. For me a washer and a drier inside the unit was non-negotiable. Never would I return to my college years of having to use coin-operated machines, amid concerns that stuff would be stolen were I not there the second my load was done.

I lucked out when I found a condo with its own laundry room, and that's how you, dear GE Profile washing machine and I became acquainted. After procrastinating about doing an extra large load of exercise gear because I sensed you were on life support -- in which case I would be pulling dripping Lululemon joggers and matching tops, along with some rowing shorts and shirts from JL Racing, and a unisuit from that fancy place in Melbourne, Australia. You were no snob, happily washing my inexpensive LL Bean tee shirts too.

My sick feeling proved prescient. After popping a trusty Tide Ultra Oxi Pod along with a White Revive Pod into you, I piled in the aforementioned exercise gear. You filled with water, but despite my going back to check on you a few times, I could see no swooshing or spinning motion. 

Pronouncing you dead, I called to my husband in the next room, yelling: "Dennis do we have a recent Consumer Report for appliance ratings?"  The most recent guide I could find was dated 2015, and I tossed it in the recycling bin. 

"Call Yale Appliances," he responded. "They'll tell you what has a good rating from Consumer Report."  But before calling, I got Dennis to help me measure to ensure the space you occupied would accommodate your successor.

And then I ran to the phone and called Yale Appliances, my dealer of choice because of their excellent customer service. Within minutes a salesman named Greg helped me determine that since you were not a stacked washing machine, there was no need for me to purchase a new drier until that, too died. We quickly decided on a basic LG model; "I don't need a washing machine with wifi or any other tech toys," I assured him.

Your replacement was delivered today. I moved the drying rack -- never do I put my Lululemon or other nice gear in the drier -- into my walk in shower. Then I transferred the wet, slimy feeling clothing into green bags for the trip between my laundry room and my bathroom.

An incredibly efficient man named Alejandro and his helpers from Yale moved you to the parking garage for the eventual trip to a junk yard, and then installed your shiny new replacement. I apologize that you were designed so as to be replaced, not repaired, at the end of your useful life. 

Meanwhile, like the guy who remarries immediately after the death of his wife, I can't wait to take that stuff now living in my shower and launder it in my new LG machine.