These Are My Confessions
September 22, 2011 § Leave a comment
Here is something true about me: I hate to clean.
Scratch that, reword it. Scrubbing, sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, with all that I am fine. I hate to tidy. As much as I mind filth and smelliness, I could happily step over clutter piles for the rest of my life and never know I was living any differently or worse off than anyone else.
As it happens, the boyfriend, who will henceforth be called Mr. B because I’m tired of writing out the boyfriend, has been trapped in the house with me for several days due to an ingrown toenail*. And here’s the thing. If it was up to him, Mr. B would live a spartan existence: bed, computer, couch, tv (with gaming system.) No tables, no chairs, no shelves, NO CLUTTER. It is a true testament of his love for me that we have been together as long as we have, and I have never come home to a gutted house with all my (thousands of) belongings on the front lawn, Clean House style. That may or may not have something to do with the fact that we have never had a front lawn on which to toss belongings (and he does not know who Niecy Nash is), but that’s neither here nor there.
What is here AND there is the fact that I am now home for many, many more hours of the day. And I am considerably more broke. And when cheerleading and encouraging me to quit my crappy day job once and for all, Mr. B said the immortal words, “…and at this point I would honestly rather have a clean house than more money toward the mortgage every month.” And I agreed because let’s be honest, at this moment in my development the poor guy can’t have both.
So I agreed to be a house[domestic partner], and, this past week or so, I have not been holding up my end of the deal. It’s not a feminist issue, it’s a partnership issue. I know I don’t pull my weight. But here’s the other thing.
I don’t know what happens to me when I’m asked to clean up**. Suddenly this strong, ambitious woman is reduced to a whining, blubbering mess of vinegar and tantrum. I am known to actually throw myself on the bed or floor in a fit of drama when asked to pick up the scrapbooking materials I cleverly(?) hid under the coffee table. I know it’s awful, and ugly, and very very trying, but this is confessional time. If left to my own devices I will eventually clean up my clutter (because even I have a limit.) But if I’m (very nicely) asked to do it before I have deemed myself emotionally ready, I’m suddenly a five-year old who DOES NOT LIKE BROCCOLI.
I think it has everything to do with the severe lack of self-discipline I was talking about yesterday, and the amount that I meet my own want to be better with DON’T WANNA is sometimes overwhelming. As you can probably tell, I have done nothing as of yet to correct my past sins and move toward my future want to change. I know what I need to do, and yet I’m at a loss as to how to force myself to do it when I just really, really, really don’t want to. Sometimes I would rather be punched in the face than answer an email or write up a cover letter*** or move a box to a different room. I’m not even sure where to start. I don’t have a nice, neat little ending to this post, because I’m almost as frustrated with myself as Mr. B is right now. Maybe that will finally push me over the line into accountability, but I guess we’ll see. Baby steps, right?
Instead, I will leave you with a relevant-ish peek into domestic life with me and Mr. B:
B-But I guess if I’m going to be a housewife I should do the duties of a housewife… Except I’m not a houseweife I’m a domestic partner.
Mr.B- You are not domestic. You are feral.
*which I know is super painful, but so gross. he obviously insisted on showing me pictures of its removal.
**my own mess. always.
***actually I would rather be stabbed in the thigh with one of those huge restaurant-grade dinner forks than write a cover letter, but that’s a post for another day