I think I need a maid.
No, on second thought, I don’t really need a maid.
A maid would imply that I have a hard time keeping things clean, and I really don’t have a hard time with cleanliness. I am currently about 2000% better at cleaning as I go than I ever was in college or living at home. When I spill something in the kitchen, I wipe it up. (Clorox wipes are my best friend.) I mop once every two weeks. I scrub the tub once a week. Etc. etc. etc.
I swear on my life, at one point today there was clothing on every surface in my apartment.
It really isn’t my fault. It’s because I have too many clothes, and too little space, because rent is too high in the great city of Miami, and I am too poor to afford a walk-in closet. But, the long and short of it is: I just have too much darn stuff.
Today it was really getting to me. Because not only were there clothes everywhere, but there were also dishes everywhere (because I just made dinner and hadn’t put away the clean ones from last night yet), there were bags of nuts and dried fruit everywhere because I haven’t cleaned out a spot in the pantry for them yet, there are magazines and bills starting to pile up…cough cough…and I am in the process of painting my final bookshelf white, and have moved everything off the bookshelf onto the floor and nearby table.
Just looking at the mess drained me of all energy I might have mustered.
I have been super tired lately. This past Sunday, I did not get out of bed all day (except for an hour during which I ran to Publix) and watched the entire Back to the Future trilogy on ABC Family. I didn’t even Facebook during this entire time. I didn’t blog or check my email. I didn’t read my book. I just laid in my bed and dozed and watched twenty minute snippets of the movie here and there. That’s how exhausted I was. I felt drugged. I told Wendy I thought I had African Sleeping Sickness. “You watch too much House,” she informed me. Probably true.
In any case, the point is, because I did – quite literally – nothing, all day, on the day where I was supposed to do all of my apartment-cleaning-bill-paying-grocery-shopping-bathroom-scouring chores, my apartment just feels overwhelming. It is such a small room that even a pair of shoes kicked off in the middle of the floor and a stack of papers on the table makes it instantly feel cluttered.
Then, the more cluttered it gets, the more exhausted I get just looking at it and the more I put off looking at it. Then, the next thing I know, I have a mountain of clothes to hang up/put away, a mountain of dishes to wash, a mountain of bills to sort/pay/recycle, and every surface in the apartment to wipe down.
It makes me tired just thinking about it.
but it captures the correct emotion.]
So today, after cooking dinner and working out (by that I mean, Wendy and I went walking in the park next to my building where a single lap around the track feels like you swam ten miles through a steamy swamp, so I returned to my apartment drained, rather than invigorated), I decided, I was definitely going to clean tonight.
So, I put all the shoes in their basket. I put all my clothes in a pile next to the closet. I put all the dishes in the sink, and the food in the cabinets. I straightened the edges of the bills so that the piles were neater. I lit a candle.
Then I crawled in bed.
What is wrong with me?
The idea of cleaning makes me want to cry. Usually, when I have extensive cleaning to do, I blast some Judy Garland and Edith Piaf and put on my black and white toile hostess apron and my turquoise cleaning gloves, and get a burst of energy that usually results in a spic’n’span apartment.
Can somebody please send me something strong and caffeinated?