Stories

I curse the two story house we live in as I traipse up and down the stairs during my lunch to do laundry and clean the guest bedroom and bathroom.

"My feet hurt," I tell my husband. I've been cleaning all day. We're having company and I must get the house in order. This was after a full day of work. I forgot the way mopping hurts my back. 

I'm actually pretty lazy most of the time. I work hard and then I read or watch television. I don't cook much and although I pick up the house a lot, especially early morning after a couple of espressos, deep cleaning our whole house this week was not something I was looking forward to.

Yet, there's something satisfying in scrubbing a floor and a bathtub. I love how the shiny marble counters look after a nice wipe down. 

Yet, I must also admit that I am the opposite of a domestic goddess. I always say, I don't cook, I order. And I'm a writer, not a cleaner. I know I'm privileged. I have a good job with a nice income and a husband who pitches in a lot.  And we have a large five bedroom house, a house way too big for us. But we still find a way to fill it up. 

Actually, I think that's the problem. We have so much stuff. I have way too many clothes. They're in containers. I wear the same black dresses, pants, shirts and cardigans to work and after work, it's a t-shirt and sweats. So why am I holding on to all of this stuff? Because I can't let go? Because I think I'll fit into my size 12 dresses again? Because I can I suppose. Because I can.