Some people love the smell of napalm in the morning. For me, a similar sensation arises when I drop dress shirts off at the dry cleaners for Comet Cleaners to do an extra-terrestrial job of starch and press, only to find that other, equally eligible shirts sit ready already for pick-up.
When I heard the sum they quoted me, roughly a decent fraction of the average month's per capita income of the day to day citizen of Belize, I became convinced that the dry cleaning included not just a swath of shirts, but an entire lending library stocked with an encyclopedia of shirts. I digress, parenthetically, to state that there is nothing wrong with me that being a librarian would not have cured, and then deviate back to topic.
The high price tag at Comet Cleaners was not, as it turned out, an indication that any more than a satisfying number of shirts was ready to wear. The price culprit instead was that some of my wife's clothes were newly cleaned (or, if the word is not cleaned, then dried).
I consider the price inequities between men and women's dry cleaning bills a modern travesty of market economics. I remain surprised that some enterprising cleaners has not already realized that a loyal clientele could be built on a gender-neutral pricing plan. I did not mount any soapboxes today. I paid the bill, and drove to work.