I am a clean person. I like my surroundings to be clean. I enjoy cleaning. I clean my house meticulously each and every Friday, no excuses. It takes me 4-5 hours to finish the job and by the time Saturday night arrives I feel the need to do it again. I have felt very little anguish over my iron-clad cleaning schedule and, in many ways, I look forward to cleaning day. However, this past Friday I found myself hating every minute of it. I love sliding into clean sheets on Friday night, but this past Friday I was loathe to strip the bed and put on the new sheets. I love the smell of Dr. Bronner's but last week's old-fashioned hands and knees floor scrubbing left me sweaty and miserable, curing at every dog hair I wiped up. In short, I am suffering from burn out. After 10 years of Friday evenings spent cleaning toilets and scouring bath tubs I am fed up.
I relayed my crankiness to Dave who plaintively said "You're burned out. You need a vacation." I, in turn, collapsed on the [freshly made] bed and curled up in the fetal position, "Yes," I said without emotion, "Vacation."
Sweet vacation is coming. I have to keep my eyes on the prize. You see, even though vacation only lasts one week, B is staying in Pennsylvania with family for the next three weeks, which means the house will get less dirty and I won't have to clean as much while she's gone. Although, I have to say that it tends to totally freak some people out when my house isn't spic and span. There has been a time or two when I'm lounging around like the proverbial pig in poop and a particular neighbor or husband will stick their head in the room and ask when B is coming home. Some people don't particularly care for my slovenliness and view my unkempt home as an affront to their sensibilities. All I know is that I'm looking forward to watching Top Model/Project Runway/My So Called Life marathons on Friday nights while the laundry overflows the hamper and the dishes petrify in the sink.