An untidy woman
"Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results."
That quote has often been attributed to Einstein, but he didn’t say it. His wife did.
It’s not relativity theory it's domestic drudgery. HE equals ME Sweared. I sometimes wonder when "cleaning under the house" became something to do with one’s Sunday.
I remember when I used to wake up and plan something like a day at the beach or a bushwalk but now I clean cupboards, only to open them a few weeks later to find they have resumed their former chaos.
Watch: Things mums never say. Post continues after.
It’s so much effort maintaining order. It’s clearly not the natural state.
I’m tired of spending another minute of my life doing something pointless and ultimately unrewarding. As anyone who has lived with me will attest, I’ve maintained an unrelenting regime of sorting and dusting and wiping and waxing. And yelling.
I am 52, I’ll be dead soon. I don’t want to lie on my death bed thinking ‘f*ck I wished I’d cleaned the fan’. Although if I’m dying and I have to look at a dusty fan I know it will sh*t me.
I’ve often wondered why I care so much?
Why is so much of my wellbeing and sense of self tied up with this sense I have to achieve domestic excellence? Am I prescribing to the antiquated belief that states the cleaner the house, the better the woman? Do I think less of messy women? Do I think I am better because my house is cleaner?
There’s this puritanical psychological coding that exists deep in my brain stem that insists I clean up if people are coming over. I don’t want them walking into my house and seeing my lack of care, my failure to be a woman secretly declaring ‘That Mandy Nolan is a dirty b*tch – on stage, and OFF.’