Chinese Laundromat

I'm in that part of a transition where everything rubs up against the memory of how I did it "before". It leaves a little static cling in my brain.
I did my first load of china town laundry yesterday. I stood awkwardly in the Laundromat for a few minutes, not quite sure if I should stay and wait or go. Normally I would never sit in the Laundromat waiting for laundry, even in the old place I went to which was fully equipped for a human to live out his or her lifespan in comfort: Multiple TV's, a machine that dispensed gourmet cookies, both juice and soda vending machines, some machine that you stick your finger in and tells you how hot you are, one of those cruel contraptions with the janky claw on the end that you pay a dollar to watch it futilely grab at a stuffed animal, internet access, and, I kid you not, massage chairs. Next time you are in Williamsburg, stop by the Lavanderia on powers and kick back for 20.
I'm standing there, staring at my clothes, looking at a stack of 3 plastic deck chairs in a corner wondering if I should just sit in them. I didn't want the laundry ladies to find me somehow inappropriate. I'm very attached to protocol.
I deposited myself in the stack of chairs and listened to the Chinese radio. Snacking on wasabi peas (that I had bought because I was too uncomfortable to ask the girl the deli to give me matches without buying anything) gave me momentary anxiety because I remembered the rape of Nanking and is it offensive to eat Japanese snack products in a Chinese Laundromat? The depth of my capacity to worry about everything shocked me out of my chair and onto the street to smoke a cigarette from the stress pack I had bought 3 days before. And my laundry tumbled away.