You know you’ve reached the heights (or depths) of slothfulness when the cleaners actually call you and ask you to pick up your stuff. They were nice about it, but I still felt like I was getting sent to the principal’s office. If I ever had any lingering concerns about being a responsible adult, I think I can stop worrying (after all, it causes those pesky wrinkles).
So I finally picked up the cleaning. It reminded me of a conversation I once had with a guy whose family owned a dry cleaning business. He said that he’d gotten lots of great clothes from it. I asked him how, and he said, “People just forget to come and get their stuff.” Pause. “And then, you know, some of them die.”