This might sound completely quackers, but one of the things that I miss the most since the fibro got worse is cleaning my home. I really enjoyed it, the scrubbing, sweeping, dusting, vacuuming and whatnot.
Saturday was usually cleaning day, unless I was working weekends at the time. I wore an old T-Shirt and a pair of ratty shorts. I’d gather up all of my supplies and get busy. It would take me a couple of hours, but the satisfaction that I received from having a clean environment to live in was well worth the sweat and hard labor.
It’s all a part of my OCD, I can’t stand dirt and clutter.
My bedroom as a youth was always clean and tidy, whereas my brother’s room was a hot fucking mess. He had a yellow carpet, but you seriously couldn’t tell, he had that much junk on the floor.
That’s how my daughter is now. Her room is also a hot fucking mess. I do my best to avoid looking or going in there unless it’s an emergency.
Like so many aspects of my life that has changed within the last few years, living with dust-bunnies is something that I’ve had to adapt to. I’ve even named a few of my favorites, like Irwin here.
I do my best nowadays, but it just isn’t the same.
My mom had a plaque on the wall when I was a kid that said:
My house is clean enough to be home, but dirty enough to be healthy.
Or some kind of shit like that.