Okay, I confess. More than half a year has passed since I’ve done my own laundry. And before you start imagining putrid piles of clothes cluttering a Brooklyn abode, or bi-weekly garbage bags of musty discards making their way to the Salvation Army and a wallet of maxed-out credit cards to boot, let me say: it’s not even like that. Since I discovered the luxury, I’ve indulged in drop off service. Ten dollars for ten pounds. I pick up my threads next day, my unmentionables folded into origami hellos—smelling of a springtime not of my choosing. The last time I tended to my own laundry was this past summer on a Greek island, where I spent a month at a writing workshop. Washing machines were not prevalent on Thassos, so I scrubbed my clothes in the bathroom sink and hung them on the line to let the breeze do the rest—an unexpectedly gratifying task. Yet, upon my return to New York, I...