This last week I was reading Sophie Kinsella’s book I’ve got Your Number. In the story, the main character, Poppy, talks about her boyfriend’s parents, who are intellectuals with books all over the place and crappy housekeeping skills. I seriously read it and was like, “That’s an option?” Wow! I would love that! Focus on my writing, my projects, my garden, and just let the inside of the house fall to utter chaos and ruin. The idea is so appealing, all the muscles in my back simultaneously relax – even those tense ones in my shoulders that are always hard.
So, I wonder … I am excessively artistically inclined and would like to spend all my time creating this and doing up that, but is there anyone out there who would rather clean their house than make something? I can’t even fathom it. I can imagine people who would rather exercise and people who would rather do their career, but I can’t even compute wanting to clean. Tell me honestly; are the people who like to clean also the people who do jigsaw puzzles? Because I can’t imagine who does those either.
I’ve been thinking about cleaning because my washing machine broke down last week. I had laundry piled up already before I knew it was broke. The new ones are being delivered tomorrow and in the meantime, some of us have to wear clothes we’ve worn before. That I can handle. At least there’s been enough underwear to go around. It’s the towel situation that has me down.
The point is, I’d like to be all stubborn and let my house go to pot, but my knees crumble at the idea of using a dirty towel. Not only that, but my kids make me carry on. I found a piece of cheese abandoned on my couch today. You ever want to bonk yourself in the forehead and say, “That stupid kid!”? No? I knew it was just me. In any case, you can’t let that stuff slide. That’s not like a layer of dust on War and Peace. If you find that cheese in a week, you could have nightmares for the rest of your LIFE.
So, until tomorrow, I’ve developed this coping mechanism. I plan to be a brainy intellectual whose mind is above the cares of the world. I’m thinking about astrophysics and the deterioration of the morals of our time. Once I get a load of towels done, I’ll be back to pretending I’m Scarlet O’Hara saying ‘fiddle-dee-dee’ at everything. That is … until I discover another pain threshold – (aka. a waffle crammed between the fridge and the stove).
But still, just the idea of letting it all go makes me feel delirious with happiness. It’s like calling the Corey hotline or something. “Here are some words that rhyme with Corey … gory … glory … sad sob story …”