What is this torture I inflict upon myself every few days, and why do I persist in doing it? I’m transported all the way back into my childhood. In my mind’s eye, I see my mother scrubbing, scouring, running the vacuum while singing endless hymns, stretching the melodies out until the end of the task. Venetian blinds splay across the dining room table. The antiseptic odor of Spic n Span fills my small nostrils as I watch her religiously toil away at the grime. Oh, I say to my small self. This must be what women do.
Now, at the other end of my life, I have to wonder why. Who even cares? Certainly not my easygoing husband, who praises me to the skies for cleaning anything and promises me the moon for my efforts. Or at least dinner out. His philosophy – don’t criticize the mess if you don’t want to clean it up. Amen to that. And he has learned not to get in my way when I finally decide to tackle this job. It will not be pretty.
The main reason for inviting company over, I’ve come to believe, is to force myself to deal with the mounting clutter, the visible dirt. And company is coming. So this morning I resolve to prioritize cleaning the house. I arise in full focus on this one thing, put on the least amount of clothing possible, (nothing at all would be my first choice but the neighbor might bring over brownies in the midst of my angst), take a deep breath, turn up the volume on some Black Gospel, and go to it. A bottle of bleach is by my side, my new best friend and constant companion. I cut corners and ignore entrenched dirt. No one will see that moldy edge, or look under that bed, or notice that dust coated dresser. Let it go for now. I give myself a time limit and race with the clock. I yell at the stubborn scum on the bottom of the tub. I bump my head on an open cupboard door and scream in pain. I push on heedlessly, chipping the vacuum here and there, and continue unabated. Who cares? It’s still running. I vituperate against the futility of a universe in which dust is a recurring and never ending force. Why do I bother? It just comes back.
At last it’s done. I breathe in those fresh scents and give thanks that tomorrow I will wake up to a slightly cleaner house. Maybe it’s not up to my mother’s standards, but it’s a definite improvement. I lean back into my womanly accomplishments and enjoy the respite until those dust bunnies return. And they will.
