Morning, 8:30 a.m. I wake up, stretch and stumble over to the dresser, looking for something vaguely non-pajama-like to serve as my Outfit Of The Day. The only item of apparel that manages to fit this description is my NYU-purple bathrobe. And a single polka-dotted sock.

I know what this means.

It’s laundry day.

Morning, 9 a.m. I am having a panic attack because doing laundry is a concept entirely unfamiliar to me. I didn’t have to do laundry at home. At home, laundry got done, passive voice. Clean, dry, non-bathrobe items of apparel folded and set on my bed. Every sock had its partner and every stain was ruthlessly gunned down. My mother used to tell me that the Laundry Fairies were responsible. Maybe I should Skype my mother and ask her to talk to the Laundry Fairies for me. They’ll know what to do.

Morning, 9: 15 a.m. The Laundry Fairies were a lie. My life is a lie.

Morning, 10:30 a.m. I have hauled the laundry basket down two flights of stairs to the laundry room and I am crying because I don’t know how to open the door of the washing machine.

Morning, 11 a.m. I have opened the door of the washing machine and I am crying because I don’t know which cycle to use.

Morning, 11:15 a.m. I am on Skype with my mother and I am crying because she is yelling at me for crying.

Morning, 11:30 a.m. I have found the washing machine guide. It makes for very interesting reading, and it’s informative too. Did you know that washing machines can catch fire?

Noon, 12 p.m. I have been so engrossed in reading the guide that someone has opened my washing machine – I’m sure they had to practice opening it, it’s not easy – and filled it with their load. I am now sitting in front of the machine and waiting for that person's two and a half hour cycle to finish. I watch the clothes in the machine go round and round. It is mesmerizing. It is a work of art. I think I would like to paint this washing machine and all those playful, tumbling clothes.

Afternoon, 12:30 p.m. It is not easy to paint moving objects. I understand now why Matisse painted still-life. Then again, he wasn’t a global citizen.

Afternoon, 2:30 p.m. The cycle is over! My painting is finished! I put my own clothes into the machine and hang my painting next to the clothes rack. I have decided that it will become a symbol of the quiet magnificence and stately dignity of the laundry room. I kick the forgotten underwear out of sight to create what the French would call ambience. I have transformed this room into the Louvre.

Afternoon, 2:45 p.m. I think I need to buy detergent.

Afternoon, 3 p.m. I am back from the Convenience Store. I don’t know where to put the detergent, so I just pour it into all the compartments. More is less, I think.

Afternoon, 3:15 p.m. The clothes are frolicking among the suds, behind the glass window that separates the unclean mortals of the universe from the clean façades they use to hide their real selves. My painting looks so good.

Afternoon, 4:30 p.m. The clothes are out. They smell like strawberries and cream. I am a laundry goddess.

Afternoon, 4:45 p.m. How do I use the iron?