This is EXACTLY how laundry day at my house looks: me, doing squats in my halter dress, and my daughter lovingly folding clothes at my side.

I bought a washing machine. I offer that sentence without fanfare. Because it is, by its nature, fanfareless. For me, buying a washing machine is a lot like buying a new hot water heater. Or tires. You need these things in life. But there is no great joy in getting them. There is no Instagramming of the new washer. Or selfies in front of the hot water heater. And, if the teen girl influence in my house tells me anything, if it’s not worth putting on social media, it really doesn’t matter.

Except it does; both functionally, and as I later realize as a marker of time.

It was the first time I bought an appliance. I mean I have been part of a couple that bought appliances. But this was my first solo foray into buying an appliance. Heady responsibility, I know.

It reminded me a little bit of the first time I bought a new car, when the salesman didn’t want to talk to me without my husband. Which was frustrating, given I had done the research, determined the model and knew exactly what I was willing to pay. And I was all ready to beat back the inane “how much would you like your monthly payment to be” question.

The salesman did not have the car color I wanted. He tried to talk me into what was basically a purple car. Like I was driving around in The Grimace. He said, “Most women like this color.” Note to salesmen: most women don’t want to do what “most women” are doing. I told him I did in fact like the color. For a blouse.

Set on quickly accomplishing the washer acquisition, I dropped into a Sears appliance and hardware store. As it was each time I have been to this store, the employees far outnumbered the customers. And in fact there were two men in the appliance section. One approaches. I have a couple of questions. My salesman starts to answer and is approached by another salesman, who says something I don’t understand. My salesman excuses himself. “Pardon me, we have a bit of an emergency I need to attend to.”

An emergency? In the Sears appliance section? What kind of emergency could you possibly be having? Is the ratio of customers to associates out of whack? Is someone grilling you on the number of socks each model washer eats per annum?

I leave…washerless.

My trip to Lowe’s is more productive. And my salesman compliments me on my product knowledge, decisiveness and the price I got on the washer. All of which may have been salesman schmooze. It doesn’t matter. By the next day I could cancel time set aside for beating clothes with rocks.

And it hits me…much like a recent replacement carpet purchase for the upstairs…I really only need a washer that’s going to last for about five years. In five years, my youngest will be off to college, and I won’t be living in an empty house in the suburbs. Even with its recently replaced carpet and washing machine.

If the first 19 years of parenthood are any indication, the next five will feel like a blink. And the fleetingness makes me sad. And it makes me want to hug the new washer. Mostly because it can’t protest excessive hugs like my youngest does. But I keep hugging her anyway.