Housework irritates me. I love having a fresh, clean, tidy house but I hate getting there. I am smugly pleased when it is finished, but I loath doing it.
Avoiding it doesn’t help. The dust balls gather into tumbleweeds, get together with the loose cat hair and breed. They twist and plait themselves into substantial dust-fur-spheres, then roll around searching out other bits of debris and dust lurking under the furniture… calling, Come join us!
Embarrassing, if ever someone comes to the door. Doorbell rings! I answer! The sucking air motions made by opening the door mysteriously draw and attract the scuttling accumulations of dust-fur-globes. There we all are: three cats, me, and myriad enormous dust-fur-balls milling around a visitor who pretends not to notice. Embarrassing, but when that happens, it really is time to clean.
Avoiding cleaning doesn’t help for another reason. I am highly allergic to house dust. If I allow the cleaning to go unattended, distressing respiratory problems arise. I sneeze repeatedly, hard uncontrollable sneezes, the kind that threaten damage to my ribs. My eyes stream water, my sinuses swell. I can’t breathe.
Housework irritates me; not doing housework irritates me, too!
Can writing this blog-entry be construed as avoidance of the dreaded housework? Maybe, perhaps. Must go, must clean, must vacuum, must dust, must dust, must dust…
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