I hate cleaning. It feels like it’s a never ending battle. The second I finish folding some pants or washing a mug or scraping a grill, there are double the number of pants, mugs and grills for me to clean again.
How can two people – adults no less – make so much mess?
I’m having one of those rare days where I’m trying to clean the ENTIRE apartment.
A fabulous Saturday project, I know. It’s mid-afternoon and I’m still going. But only because I promised myself a considerably large glass of wine later.
The piles of papers on the kitchen table are gone (either filed or chucked), the rug has been hoovered to death, even the Mount Everest of clothes in the spare room has been tackled.
Just now I even cleaned under the microwave.
Someone send help.
There’s something so peaceful about a tidy house though – and in the end I know it’ll be worth it. A tidy house smells good. It looks orderly. There are no crumbs (I hate crumbs). A tidy house makes me feel like I have my shit together.
But I still know, deep down, that it will be back to its usual chaotic, crumb-infested self in a few days time.
So I’m going to sit here and enjoy it while it lasts.
(Really have no idea how couples with children keep a tidy house – but I’ll cross that bridge when I get to it)