Pleasures

When I said that I clean when I am down, it was a sort of half-truth I’m afraid, which is nothing more than a lie, in the end, as my mother taught me.

I should not have lied.

I apologize.

The truth is that I clean every chance I get, regardless of mood. Despite or because of mood, even.

Truly, cleaning is one of the greatest pleasures in life. Sweeping, mostly. The kitchen tiles but also, to a lesser extent, those of the bathrooms, the latter being lesser pleasures only for their having fewer tiles to sweep.

My Shark Rocket ultra-light upright vacuum with swivel steering comes in a close second, for with it, any number of astonishing household chores can be achieved. The attachments allow for everything from cleaning out the fan on my laptop to reaching that frustrating spot where the ceilings meet the walls and dust accrues.

I like rubbing away the smudges from around light switches and organizing the contents of my lipstick case, my hanging shoe rack, and my underwear drawer by color. I declare to you with confidence that the transparency of my windows rivals that of any windows in this city, and perhaps in the whole state of Texas.

Cleaning is perfect. I can see – I can know precisely! – that moment in time in which a task is complete.

Finished.

Transcended.

A friend calls me on the telephone and asks if I want to go out and have fun tonight. I say to her, “I can’t. I have to stay in so I can clean my house.”

But inside, secretly, I am thinking, “I get to stay home and clean my house tonight!”