Yesterday morning, we were in a hurry to leave the house. I’d been away all weekend (sans the spouse) and the house was not as, um, orderly as I’d like.
A small pile of unopened mail littered the kitchen counter, the breakfast dishes sat in the sink and those crumbs on the table were not from me. In the living room, a half-done giant toddler puzzle was blocking the French doors and my daughter’s princess castle took up the coffee table. The princes and princesses were scattered about, as if they’d been shot from a cannon out of the turret.
But we were late, and the only thing that causes me more angst than a messy home is not arriving somewhere at least five minutes early on time.
So we left — princess casualties and all — and got in the car. As I locked the door I thought “please don’t let me die while we’re gone.”
If my home is not in order when I go anywhere (especially on vacation) I’m all but convinced I’m going to meet my maker before returning to correct the disorder. In this scene I’ve mentality built, people will come to mourn (or celebrate) my passing and be greeted with an unwashed omelette pan or toothpaste-splattered mirror.
I cannot allow Crest droplets be my legacy. I just can’t.
And that fear (along with, I’m sure, a dose of obsessive personality something or other) leads me to clean up before leaving.
Clutter makes me anxious, but dirty messes all but send my otherwise low blood pressure into the red zone. (Plus, I really like coming home to a clean house.)
So I build time in to my morning to make sure things are tidy (or, at least relatively so) each day. And then I leave, and manage to return home with my heart still beating. I live because I clean. This is true. I know it.
I’m sure, though, the day I go will be the day the laundry baskets are at their fullest, the bathroom at it’s least-gleaming and the kitchen will look like an episode of a timed cooking competition reality show just got done filming.
