Breathing deeply the fragrance of ammonia and bleach, I need a break to collect and put down my thoughts. Cleaning is a funny ritual for me. I accept unusual amounts of hideous debris to collect on me as I scrub and wipe the place I live. I feel as though I can take it, as though I’m required to take the dirt upon myself before it can truly be gone. Credit some misguided messiah complex or whatever for that, but I prefer scrubbing by hand, inspecting each surface close up to ensure the job is done.

I take an inordinately long amount of time to do dishes by hand, too. I continue wiping away long after they’re clean enough. I suppose it’s in part due to my upbringing, which I remind everyone of when I receive looks for 30 second (minimum to remove bacteria) hand washings, or even when I surprise myself with borderline obsessive-compulsive cleaning tendencies. Nearly every woman in my extended family has been a nurse it seems. My sister is in medical school. Then I’ll eat stuff off the floor, and some people say I’m a stable personality type. They’re close. I have stable personality types. The ends of the spectrum, I’m curious, let me have several types of lives at once.

I’ll do yoga, run, take up swimming, then I’ll light up a cigarette. I enjoy the outdoors, backpacking, but I want to live near or in a metroplex. Quiet and contemplative, then streaking around the neighborhood with only a beer. I wonder if I have to give up parts of my person and become completely one way or the other. Anyway, all this to say, you should see the bathroom, it’s getting a facelift.

If you haven’t read Donne, do.

“It were but madness now t’impart
The skill of specular stone
When he which can have learned the art
To cut it, can find none.”
The Undertaking, John Donne