My wife and I are both fairly indifferent housekeepers, which only occasionally bothers me, and after all, if and when it does, I can always break out the vacuum or mop, right?
But Teri is periodically seized by guilt at the accumulated grime and will then dedicate a day to fervent cleaning. Today is one of those days. Though she in no way expects me to pitch in any more than I care to - which isn't much right now - I still have some unsettling childhood memories of my mother cleaning house - which she did often - with a grim set to her mouth that conveyed a bewildering blend of anger and determination. As a child, I couldn't begin to decode what the causes could be, so I just tried to stay out her way, but I still felt vaguely afraid and guilty.
So, yes, some of that still hovers near me on days like today. I'm in the midst of a great book - "Parrot & Olivier in America", by Peter Carey - but the hazy sun in the backyard is somehow distracting and I can only read a few pages at a time before losing my focus. So I sit down and write a few lines about my anxiety and dissatisfaction in an effort to shake them off.
Not sure if it's working.
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