At heart, I am an incredibly clean person. I was raised to believe that there is nothing so sinful as a dirty room. In the home of my youth, illness was no excuse to not scrub clean a toilet one vomited in  only moments before.

In college, I used cleaning as a tool of procrastination, which worked to my advantage, as well as my roommate’s. But being away from my mother’s watchful gaze gave me plenty of opportunity to show my more slothful side. Things like dirty sheets on the bed (thank you, dear friend and roommate for washing those for me more regularly than I would have on my own) and dirty dishes hidden in the microwave were my silent rebellion.

In my first apartment with my new husband, I struggled to keep things clean to the standards of my youth and mostly succeeded. I managed to keep up with the clutter and trash until such time as I graduated and began work in the real world.

I’m not too fond of the real world. I had so much determination and endless energy to read books for classes, stay up all night writing papers and still cooked dinner most nights and kept a nice clean house. Then came work. Working has destroyed my health and my home. All I feel like I have time and energy to do after working is eating something (fast, unhealthy) and sleeping. If I get to spend a few hours on the sofa with my lovely husband, I count the day as a success. Cleaning doesn’t regularly figure in to my week. And my weekends are always intended for the sole purpose of cleaning but instead involve more sleep, food, and TV than anything else. It’s a problem. My mother would be (and probably is) ashamed of me.

I started all this by saying that I’m clean at heart. I really really am. Not so sure which part of me is so insanely NOT clean, but my heart is sparkling clean!