Housework

I am a terrible housekeeper. I live alone, so all of the household chores are mine. I sometimes go on cleaning rampages, but not nearly as often as I should. I make charts telling me when to clean what, assigning each task to a particular day of the week based on the rest of my schedule. The chart is useless when my first flare happens.

If I hurt all over, the last thing I want to do is get down on all fours and scrub the bathtub. I hate doing dishes because the hot water makes my hands swell. Running the vacuum makes the bursitis in my shoulders flare. I don’t cook for myself as often as I should because standing on the hard linoleum floor hurts my back, and standing in general makes my feet swell.

So, I live in a less than presentable home. I rarely invite people over because I know it’s a mess. I get by. I’m not exactly a hoarder or living in complete filth, but my cleaning habits are taboo enough that I keep my apartment closed to the outside world. There is clutter. There are dishes in the sink. There is dust. There is always laundry. Always laundry.

But you know what? It’s okay. Nobody has to live with this but me. The handful of times I have invited people over, they have not hidden their criticisms, so I have revoked their visitation rights. It’s my mess to manage. Sometimes managing is good enough. I can handle the mess when I feel better. When I do, my cleaning rampage will be for my own satisfaction.