To clean or not to clean that is the question… except, it’s a little more nuanced than that.
Having grown up with a mother who was obsessed with her home i.e. lean forward to take a sip from your cuppa & she’ll be plumping the cushions behind you, I’ve developed a much more lax attitude to housework.
I adore, & purchase, multiple cleaning gadgets that deliver all manner of sparkling household loveliness – except I don’t use them. I purchase them in the false belief that they will somehow imbue me with a sense of purpose & domesticity not yet witnessed by those who live with me. I purchase them not because I’m a house-proud neat freak, but because I loath & detest housework to my core. But surely, I hear you say, you can’t take pleasure in your slovenliness? Truth is, & I feel slightly ridiculous admitting this, I actually like living in a tidy home. The domestic tug of war is real, people!
When I lived alone in tiny flats they were as clean & chic as can be, but then a weird thing started to happen as I got older & started to live with other people. I began to feel that domestic chores where a form of submission or servitude, even more of a ‘why are you punching yourself in the face’ admission is that the people I live with now are my husband & son!
I can’t actually put a finger on when this domestic doom’n’gloom descended on me, but I have come to the conclusion that my feminist principles have sneakily struck up a treaty with my slovenly subconscious to ensure that I will forever be doomed to live in a messy home.
Any mind hacks on how to kick the jams out of cleaning & not mind the servitude of dusting will be gratefully received. Surely I can’t be the only person that hoovers in a simmering fog of feminist betrayal, or am I