To say I am a perfectionist by nature would be an understatement. To say I have fought it all my life would be a lie.

No, for most of my existence on this earth, my quest has been for the best.  Of anything.  Grades, colleges, cribs, strollers, cars, shoes, cell phones, mattresses,porch furniture,grandchildren’s scooters.

Now, my “quest for the best” should not be confused with having to have the most expensive version of all things. To me, those are two very different animals.

In fact, having the most expensive version of all things is pretty easy to do if you have the money.  It takes no imagination, research or style to simply buy what is on the cover of the Neiman Marcus  catalogue or whatever is strutted by the latest celebrity in People. Buying or living this way may give some people a sense of importance or status. But to me, it lacks any originality or je ne se quoi. (That’s French for a person that inherently has their good-taste-in-all-things shit together. No one has to tell them. They just know. Think Katherine Hepburn. Her unrelated fellow actor, Audrey.)

So my most recent quest has been for the perfect washer and dryer.

With piles of Lulu Lemon and Feel Good white T’s (two of my “quest for the best” favorites by the way), piling up in front of my on-its-last-leg Kenmore, I was faced with a whole new world of research possibilities. Not having bought a washer and dryer in over a decade put me somewhere between owning a washboard and mangle.  And still drying things on “the line.”

Right out of the box, I realized to my horror machines no longer use agitators or a heaping cup of granular Tide. The control panels are no longer happy ratchet sound knobs but LED lit touch screens. So much new to over-analyze and so little time, as my clothes were growing small shrubs of mold in the tub of my dilapidated machine. Per usual, my over-research involved two calls to different  manufacturers’ customer service centers, lengthy discussions with three Lowes salesman, massive internet review reading and even a trip to Lowes by my sister after I broke my foot. (Not related to tripping over my ever-increasing mounds of laundry. Another story.)

To me, this is where a “best quest” steps out of normal consumer range and my OCD tendencies step in and I make myself and everyone around me crazy. I’m sure on some level here I am parading my OCD tendencies as a simpler diagnosis of meticulous researcher.  A simple girl who just likes to get the most bang for her buck.

On a good day,  I’m hoping I fall somewhere in between.

This story gets so much better but to keep this to a one page entry and hopefully not have you nodding off between paragraphs, I’ll give you the Cliff Notes version of what transpired before my new washer and dryer were safely placed and leveled in my laundry room.

–I finally chose a sort of new age/old lady hybrid by Whirlpool that had my familiar cycle knobs and no agitator. Instead it had an impeller that gently rocks the clothes like a new mother using less water, less soap, less suds and less energy. All those lesses sounded like less clean clothes to me.  But my Lowes salesman assured me the power jet rinse and high speed spinning would balance it all out to perfectly clean laundry.  He had me at “perfectly.”

–But as luck would have it, the dryer in this set (which I never gave a second thought as a dryer is a dryer is a dryer) had a heat sensor flaw that snagged, shredded and ruined my first load of towels.

–Lowes, who gets an A++ on customer service, asked few questions and offered to replace both appliances the next day.

–Given a chance to rethink my choice, once more, and having had a few loads of practice at getting used to the world of no agitators, I traded up for the full deal, LED screen, doorbell chime end of cycle signal Whirlpool set. Which, by the way, is made in the USA and even has a flag in the lid to prove it.

And here, washer drum roll please, are my compulsive researcher conclusions.  HE (High Efficiency), no agitator, energy saving machines are leaps and bounds better than the machines our grandmothers used. When I pulled my first load out, and it had been spun to half way to dry and smelled like spring flowers, I swear Snow White’s bluebirds circled my head singing “You’re out of the woods” while braiding blue satin ribbons in my hair. (I know I’m mixing fairy tale/movie allusions here but that was my image, so I’m sticking to it.)

To be honest, I am sure my research perfection/obsession involves some mortal fear of making a mistake, any mistake, that is tangled up with feeling like a failure if I ever get a grade less than an A.

Or perhaps it was  the humiliation of my eighth-grade gym teacher, Mrs. Burford, screaming she hated me when my Tahitian fake hair ponytail ( a 70’s fad I had purchased from an ad in the back of Teen magazine) fell out from under my 70’s bun, hitting  mid-court like road kill, during homeroom basketball.  Which stopped the game.  And sent me to the bench. In front of the whole school.

More likely the latter. I’d still like to give Mrs. Burford a spin in my new high speed Whirlpool.