I am a closet slob.
Unfortunately, I am also a kitchen slob, bedroom slob and bathroom slob. Don’t get me wrong – if given the choice between a sparklingly clean house and a set from the next episode of ‘Hoarders’, I will choose the former without the slightest hesitation… as long as I don’t have to clean it myself.
I’m certainly not dirty; I would shower twice a day if I had the time. I obsessively think about germs in public places and shriek with terror when my boys attempt to step over the threshold of the house with muddy shoes. Getting a stain on my shirt during lunch sends me into a panic, and I spend the rest of my day casually resting my hand over the offending spot, hoping no one notices that I look like I may be trying to cop my own feel.
Truly, I just hate cleaning. It always feels like a waste of time, because of course, it’s just going to get dirty again. And, again. And, …again. If I had the money, and wanton disregard for the environment, I’d throw away dirty dishes and clothes and just have brand new fresh ones ready to take their places. I’d never save a single piece of paper. And, if I wasn’t worried about their resulting therapy bills, I’d take pictures of all my children’s school projects and then just throw them into the trash.
Sometimes a friend will tell me how soothing and mind-clearing she finds it to clean her house. “It just gives me a sense of calm,” she’ll tell me. And, then I’ll ask if that’s all she’s on at the time. You know, just the cleaning bit or if there are other hallucinogenics at work. Perhaps a rather strong-smelling lye-based cleaning fluid?
No one is more disappointed with the reality that I am not a cleaner than my husband. I have to admit I may have misrepresented myself while we were initially dating.
“I’m very organized,” he may have said over dinner at one point.
“Oh, God, me too,” I may have replied.
But, that was a blatant lie. My household aptitudes, were they to be listed out on a document for interested suitors, would be as vague and exaggerated as my marketing skills on a resume from 1998. I mix whites with darks. I use the dust buster to get crumbs off the top of the dining room table. I don’t change sheets for weeks at a time. My dresser drawers are always slightly ajar because I cram clothes in without folding them. I haven’t used a mop in seven years.
I worry that our house would descend into the cluttered and dusty hell of an indoor yard sale, were it not for the occasional but all-powerful motivating factor of HOUSE GUESTS.
My desperate desire to remain a secret slob, rather than being ousted out of that closet, against my will covered with cobwebs and grime, inspires me to do the rather thinkable and expected: Hire someone to clean my house for me.
Related post: Ain’t No Mom Got Time For That
This article was originally published on