It has been a harrowing three weeks.
Come April, I face every woman’s greatest fear: spring cleaning.
Even though I anticipate its arrival, when the day finally dawns, I feel shaky and woefully unprepared to tackle the challenges before me.
I suspect I’m not alone. I know this by the anguished looks I see on women’s faces in the cleaning aisle of the grocery store around now.
Although every woman approaches spring cleaning differently, I would bet my last dustball that most conquer this ordeal by passing through phases similar to mine.
The five stages of spring cleaning:
Denial: This house isn’t so bad. Sure, I can’t see out the windows anymore, but sunrises are overrated. And those charred wads of hardened glop stuck to the bottom of my oven add a welcome flavor to whatever I’m baking. Seriously, I should market those babies: Mama’s Mesquite. And do I really want to remove the cobwebs? Where will all the poor spiders go?
Anger: @#$%! Why does all the spring cleaning always fall on my aching shoulders? What? I’m the only one who makes a mess in this dump? Uses a sink?
Kicks dropped food under the couch? And what’s with attributing all the pet filth to me? As if I shed, drag in branches, upchuck vittles or relieve myself in the fireplace. Beware, fellow dwellers! I am armed with a toilet plunger and dangerous as a hornet’s nest.
Bargaining: I want so badly to live in a sparkling house. I’d sell my soul to Mr. Clean. I promise I’ll use the kitchen fan when I cook. I promise I’ll leave my dirty shoes in the garage. I promise I’ll throw out leftovers before they morph into swamp goo. I promise I’ll change my sheets more often. Just give me another chance, oh cherished house of mine. Feel the love. I do love you. I just don’t know how to show it.
Depression: It’s overwhelming; I don’t know where to begin. And what’s the point anyway? It will just get dirty all over again. Besides, I’m no good at it anyway. If I were, I wouldn’t be in this mess. I’m a cleaning loser. No wonder no one ever stops over. I bet they sense dirt and disorder from the curb…perhaps fear contamination. Oh, who cares. All I want to do is crawl under the dingy sheets and mingle with the mites.
Acceptance: I have come to terms with the state of my home and am at peace. I’m done pretending; I’m over my fears. I…I think I see a white light at the end of the tunnel. At least that’s what I think it is: it’s hard to tell with all the grime on it.
It has been a harrowing three weeks.
Come April, I face every woman’s greatest fear: spring cleaning.
Even though I anticipate its arrival, when the day finally dawns, I feel shaky and woefully unprepared to tackle the challenges before me.
I suspect I’m not alone. I know this by the anguished looks I see on women’s faces in the cleaning aisle of the grocery store around now.
Although every woman approaches spring cleaning differently, I would bet my last dustball that most conquer this ordeal by passing through phases similar to mine.
The five stages of spring cleaning:
Denial: This house isn’t so bad. Sure, I can’t see out the windows anymore, but sunrises are overrated. And those charred wads of hardened glop stuck to the bottom of my oven add a welcome flavor to whatever I’m baking. Seriously, I should market those babies: Mama’s Mesquite. And do I really want to remove the cobwebs? Where will all the poor spiders go?
Anger: @#$%! Why does all the spring cleaning always fall on my aching shoulders? What? I’m the only one who makes a mess in this dump? Uses a sink?
Kicks dropped food under the couch? And what’s with attributing all the pet filth to me? As if I shed, drag in branches, upchuck vittles or relieve myself in the fireplace. Beware, fellow dwellers! I am armed with a toilet plunger and dangerous as a hornet’s nest.
Bargaining: I want so badly to live in a sparkling house. I’d sell my soul to Mr. Clean. I promise I’ll use the kitchen fan when I cook. I promise I’ll leave my dirty shoes in the garage. I promise I’ll throw out leftovers before they morph into swamp goo. I promise I’ll change my sheets more often. Just give me another chance, oh cherished house of mine. Feel the love. I do love you. I just don’t know how to show it.
Depression: It’s overwhelming; I don’t know where to begin. And what’s the point anyway? It will just get dirty all over again. Besides, I’m no good at it anyway. If I were, I wouldn’t be in this mess. I’m a cleaning loser. No wonder no one ever stops over. I bet they sense dirt and disorder from the curb…perhaps fear contamination. Oh, who cares. All I want to do is crawl under the dingy sheets and mingle with the mites.
Acceptance: I have come to terms with the state of my home and am at peace. I’m done pretending; I’m over my fears. I…I think I see a white light at the end of the tunnel. At least that’s what I think it is: it’s hard to tell with all the grime on it.
