Limited warranty
“With proper care, your new washing machine should last a lifetime.” The young man at Lowe’s wiggled his eyebrows and patted the appliance. At first, I dismissed his statement as typical salesman verbosity. Sure. Whirlpool is good. But the fact that I was here replacing my old Whirlpool washer made his claim suspect.
That’s when I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the shiny, stainless-steel front of a nearby refrigerator.
The woman I saw staring back had hair that blended into the gray of the appliance surface. Her bifocals loomed Mr. Magoo-y huge. Slumped shoulders carried a flowered top my mother would have absolutely LOVED, and I saw sensible, generic sneakers reflectively displayed along the recessed bottom panel of the frig.
Mr. ‘Wanna buy a washer, lady?’ was right. This Whirlpool would probably last the rest of my life.
Maybe the logic will seem maudlin to you, but I prefer to think of it as the ultimate perk of Baby Boomer consumerism. After a lifetime of paying monthly installments on everything from couches to cars—only to have to replace said item the week after the final payment is made—I am thinking I have finally reached the age where my remaining life expectancy falls short of most household product warranty averages.
I bought the washer. Then I did a little research on appliance longevity. Most major appliances last about 20 years. If I worked my existence just right, I could be looking at final purchases from now on.
Do the math. I’m in my 60s.
The chest-type freezer we bought last year will probably be humming long after I’m gone. And if not, what are the chances I’ll be able to lean very deeply into it two decades from now, digging around for a brick of beef to bake? By then, I will probably be waiting at the front door for my daily Meals on Wheels delivery.
My stove is fairly new; if I keep my cooking to a minimum from this day forward, I should be looking at the last stove to be dolly-ed across our threshold. I know. I’ll sure miss slaving over those burners night after night. But my savvy sense of financial thrift must be obeyed at any cost.
Our “cubit colossal” refrigerator has a light bulb in it that is older than me. If it decides to fizzle out, everything inside that isn’t outdated would probably fit into a cooler.
So. I should be set for the rest of my life where appliances are concerned.
It’s good to know—in a weird, penny-pinching way that only identifies me more clearly as a woman well into her skinflint years—that I am never going to have to face another appliance sales boy whose bravado and energy alternately amuse and enrage my “penny saved is a penny earned” beliefs.
This newfound revelation is a sensible part of my bequeathal plan as well. My kids already have houses full of stuff. They will not want me to leave behind new appliances. They will want old ones that they can sell for scrap.
So, when I lay my tired self on the threadbare sheets of my lumpy but still comfy bed each night, from now to forever, I will snuggle in with a grin. The sheets beneath me may resemble a wraith’s wardrobe—tattered and grayish and translucent—but they are plenty good enough to swaddle me until that final “six-feet-under” swaddle…
… “with proper care,” of course, from my new, last, washing machine.
Contact Robin at robinwrites@yahoo.com
This article originally appeared on The McDonough County Voice: Columnist Robin Leach realizes renting furniture may no longer make sense
