Dryer

The clothes dryer had been misbehaving for about a month, maybe longer. It worked, but my windows were getting steamed up, and for an hour or so after I ran the dryer, there was a wet dog smell. The dryer is not that old, plus, I only use it in the winter; much of the year I hang my clothes out to dry. It should have twice the life of a dryer living with someone who uses it year-round.

I went to the Internet where I found plenty of “my dryer smells weird” queries. As directed, I cleaned the lint trap with the special brush, wiped down the interior, checked that the vent hose was firmly attached to the wall, tossed in a vinegar and essential oil spritzed rag, and ran it again. It smelled great, but it was still steaming everything up. Then I promptly forgot about it until the next time I did laundry.

“Oh right,” I said to myself, eyeing the fogged glass window in my back door. “The dryer. You should figure out what’s going on with the dryer.”

I am short and not particularly strong, but an empty dryer is not heavy, my laundry room floor is concrete, and I own a hand truck. I slid the dryer away from the wall. The exhaust hose had become disconnected at the bottom. The walls and floor behind the vent wore a thin coat of dryer dust and dog hair. Every time I ran the dryer, the steam from the dryer vent heated up the stuff that should have been blown out the vent, and the windows fogged up.

I reattached the hose and wedged the dryer up against the wall so the hose will have to work harder to become detached. I vacuumed up as much as I could given that things were still a little damp, then set up a fan to dry everything out. The following morning, I vacuumed again and sprayed the walls with diluted vinegar. The basement is dry but blowing hot steamy air over everything is a good recipe for mold, and no one wants that. It was an easy fix, cost nothing, and required little muscle.

What’s for dinner? Why isn’t the bathtub draining? The clothes are dry but the windows are fogged up and why is there the ghost of wet dog smell? Is it just a rubber washer or does the whole fixture need replacing? What’s the best way to get downtown for that show? Is this a problem that requires specialized knowledge or do I just the need right kind of glue? Is this a DIY issue, or should I hire a pro? Is this an emergency that requires fixing right now or can I do it myself if I tackle it in small bites? So many questions. So much of living alone is problem-solving alone.

The term “emotional labor” had a resurgence, a redefinition, perhaps, in 2017 with this article in Harper’s Bazaar. I’m going to oversimplify, forgive me, but the term emotional labor refers to the energy spent trying to get your partner to deal with the shit around your house that just needs to be done. Imagine me, every time I do laundry, saying “Hey, can you figure out what’s going on with the dryer?” to some guy who knows there’s a problem with the dryer but is doing nothing about it, week after week after week, even though he has the time and I do not. “Did you figure out what’s up with the dryer?” I say, and he says, “Oh, yeah, I’ll get to that,” but never does. Finally, I drag the dryer out from against the wall and he says, “I said I’d take care of it.” I am grinding my teeth as I write up this imaginary but entirely plausible scenario. I might still have some residual anger about the decline of my relationship.

The solo problem-solving is a burden, to be sure, and I am frequently frustrated by my limitations. Power tools make me nervous and I can not lift heavy objects. This is a small price to pay for the satisfaction of just getting some shit done without having to talk about it over and over and over again. I’m wildly pleased with the changes I have made to my home since it’s been just me here. The delays seem stupid to me now, though I try to be kind to myself about that. In many cases, I delayed because spending the money on a household fix felt like undermining the financial safety net required to maintain the status quo in my relationship. With that relationship surcharge gone, I make different decisions, and then, act on them.

I think and write — they are the same for me — a lot about being alone of late. It recently occurred to me that this state could last forever. For about a year, I did okay with dating, but the pandemic broke something in society, me, or both, and dating has been terrible since. During one particularly disappointing stretch on the dating apps, I read that the eHarmony algorithm finds a small percentage of the population to be undateable. I was pretty sure they meant me, given my utter lack of matches. I also had a friend tell me that my Meyers-Briggs type means that a mere ten percent of the population are a good match for me.

There’s this tendency to react with “Don’t be silly, you’ll find someone,” every time I voice this out loud. I do have one friend who said, “You know, I get that it can be hard, but you are better at being alone than anyone I know.” Which… that’s a better reaction. It’s much better to hear that your life looks good solo than it is to be seen as some kind of unfinished work that will only be completed when you have the right person standing at your side. Only with no one at my side, I’m getting a lot more done.

Also, my dryer works great now. Problem solved.