A few years ago, I worked with a woman who told me this story, which I can totally relate to, and I’m sure others can as well – at least I hope so.
“Janet” had a large dog, Ginger, that was afraid of thunder. Being so large and very bright, Ginger could figure out how to escape out the house whenever an afternoon thunderstorm deluged the city. On one particular afternoon, Janet’s neighbor spotted the dog after she broke out, and being a good neighbor, she attempted to return Ginger to the safety of the house. This happened to be at the same time Janet returned from work. She walked in her house to find her neighbor in her living room looking rather puzzled. After her neighbor explained her adventure returning the escapee to the house, she asked Janet, “Do you think we should call the police because I think you’ve been robbed.” Janet asked her why did she think that, and her neighbor replied, “Well your house has been ransacked.” To which Janet had to sheepishly admit, “No, no intruder ransacked my house, I’m just a bit behind on the housework.”
I had a good laugh. Why? Was it because my house was in the same state? Was it because I was secretly relieved I wasn’t alone? You betcha. I can’t keep up with the amount of stuff that enters the house but never leaves. I sometimes wonder if something is wrong with me psychologically. I look at all the trash, the toys, the clothes piled in every room, and I think where did this all come from? I know it’s laziness, but after working 8 to 9 hours a day, doing homework for 2 hours, getting the kids fed, bathed, and put to bed, the last thing I want to do is clean. So I tell myself, I’ll do it tomorrow. I’ll have more energy tomorrow.
Then of course I don’t get to bed until midnight, and I finally pry myself out of bed a 6:30 a.m. to begin it all over again. So I convince myself to wait another day. Before I know it, it’s been at least two weeks, and the house is a disaster area. Then that’s about the time someone wants to visit, so I crash clean. And after the crash clean comes the burn out. But I feel so much better about everything when the house is clean. I feel better about myself. Why do I measure my self-worth by how clean my house is? Is that a woman thing? Because I know my husband doesn’t feel that way. Maybe while doing the dishes, I’ll find some clarity.
Don’t present it that I don’t care about the house being a mess. I do. But I grew up in a dirty house. I feel like, for the most part, we just live in a cluttered house. This will definitely be a show topic.