I can do a lot of things, but cleaning is not one of them. Oh sure, I’ve got all the appliances and bottles and concoctions and potions but I don’t like to clean.
Cleaning is hard. Usually requires some water and maybe a little elbow grease but it is not like climbing a mountain or diving off the high board.
It seems I can tolerate piles of dust and spider webs and chairs draped with yesterday’s dirty clothing.
When I was growing up my mother cleaned everything. All I had to do was put my dirty cloths in a hamper and then they would magically appear in the closet or Chester draws. The shirts would be starched and ironed and folded to keep the wrinkles away. Even the socks would be paired and rolled together.
Making up the bed was one of the few requirements made by my parents and that I even learned to avoid. Instead of pulling down the covers and slip between the sheets only to have to pull them back up the next morning and fold them and tuck them in, I decided to lay on top of the spread and fold it over me. In the morning I just unfolded it, plumped up the pillow and was go to go.
Today I only wear shorts and t-shirts and don’t mind if they are wrinkled. When I shower, the clothes are piled on the floor at the foot of the bed. I try to do this before my eyes water or I fog up the windows. When I run out of underwear, it is time to put the pile in the washer.
Maybe I’m just lazy or I’ll keep on looking at the dust and the spider webs or tomorrow I might get out the broom and sweep up the sand in the living room.