Two hours.

That’s just about the amount of time I spend every week - give or take a half hour - at the local laundromat. Local is actually a misnomer. New Jersey has an over abundance of laundromats, dry cleaners, strip malls and asphalt. Garden State indeed. But I shouldn’t trash on my adopted state; it has provided me with a vocation, education and my son.

It is my son who once again has provided me with a perspective, and a thought, for this blog.

Apartment living for the past several years has added to that fiery desire to own my own walls, roof, land and of course washer and dryer. I’ll even swing to the back of Lowes when on an odd errand just to linger by the sleek, modern front load washers and dryers, dreaming of owning my own. Red. That’s the color I’ve picked.

For now, it’s the laundromat. My son is nearly as thrilled as I am about our weekly trek. But, he has found diversions. I just sit, and stare, at the tumbling clothes. I can’t even read. It’s just too boring to even consider.

Usually there are other kids, and like most kids, after a few wary stares they are engaged in some kind of adventure. Strangers sharing only the abandonment of childhood.

As my son scooted under the folding table, being chased by another boy, I exchanged wistful smiles with the other father, folding underwear and T-shirts a few feet away. What happened? When did we stop running and playing and finding fun in the most mundane places? Perhaps we should run, too. We could pretend that one of us is a monster, I’m good for it. Dad #2 could hide under the chairs and I would have to crawl under to get him.

But, then again, I would probably just get dirty.