You must enter the Sincerity Laundromat one at a time—unless you hold hands. If you engage in conversation, you must make eye contact and use “I” language:
I feel sad when you go see a movie you know I would like with someone else.
I feel confused when we dance and you do the move known as the shopping cart while I am trying to do the double-guns-and-lasso move a la John and Olivia in Grease.
I feel excited about the new level of sincerity we are experiencing at this very moment and also disappointed that it will likely soon come to an end.
Crying is more than OK in the Sincerity Laundromat. Snickering or eye rolling will be gently admonished via three seconds of automated rain. Drunken sincerity should of course be taken with a grain of salt—purchasable from the vending machine.
At the Sincerity Laundromat all the machines are honest about their limitations. I will steal your quarter. I will leave behind a soapy residue. I will get your clothes 86% dry.
While you’re waiting, check out the library of books with long titles using the words “me” and “you.” Peruse the Rumi selection. Tell the person next to you that you want to learn to can your own fruit or start an artists’ collective. Say, I don’t believe in the American Dream but I want to do my civic duty. Listen intently to her experience of being arrested for protesting the use of rainforest woods.
When the dryer stops, remove your clothes and fold them imperfectly but with great attention. Pull on your newly washed cardigan: the scent of its soapy residue will remind you of your first love. You will never again feel this clean.
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