Is Housework the Bane of Your Existence?

And I know I'm not alone.

I certainly feel alone, though, every time I display the poor judgment of inviting one of those paragons of perfection into my home. You know the type: the walking, talking, epitome of domestic excellence, whose eagle eyes inspect every soiled or spotted surface, scrutinize every square inch of squalor, and callously critique every cluttered corner of our hopelessly neglected domiciles. Yes, that veritable scourge to all of slouchdom: the charter member of the illustrious white glove brigade, before whose accusatory gaze we shrink with very shame.

Can these self-appointed guardians of domestic purity sense that I can read their thoughts the moment they cross my dingy threshhold? I can't be certain. But of one thing I have no doubt: the almost instantaneous mental verdict handed down, with austere gravity, by my distinguished guests, somewhere between the dusty drapes and the sadly-drooping daffodils, goes something like this: Here dwells a lousy housekeeper! Of course, they rarely put it quite so poetically--not, at least, within earshot of the unfortunate object of their merciless indictment. They're far too civilized for that!

Instead, they resort to the ever-popular, embarassment-sparing art of the euphemism. These folks will offer--in appropriately condescending cadence--such sympathetic observations as, "Your house certainly is crowded!" (translation: cluttered). "I don't know how you can live in such a small place!" (read: disorganized hovel).

Now, don't get me wrong. Our apartment is far too small for a family the size of ours; but then, I seriously doubt that the apartment has been built that's big enough for this brood.

Philosophic musings aside, I simply know that they know that, tiny as our living quarters are (and they are morbidly miniscule), we'd have infinitely more space if everything weren't so disgracefully disorganized. I'm no fool. I can see right through these transparent displays of "sympathy" like a jeweler sees through cut glass.

There is an advantage to this approach, however. In such situations I can not only save face, but actually enjoy the singularly exhilarating experience of basking in the glory that emanates from the highly respectable status of household martyr. (And this extremely rewarding role should by no means be eschewed by the less-than-enthusiastic housekeeper.) Why, someone once actually commented, on entering my tiny kitchen, that I must have "the patience of a saint" to live in such a small place. (Now that I can live with.)

But, alas, it isn't nearly often enough that such golden opportunities for sainthood arise; and sad to say, visitors have been known to use infinitely more annoying approaches. Take the left-handed compliment, for example. (No offense to lefties intended.)

Upon entering my humble abode, these folks will exclaim, with obvious admiration--or is it shock?--"Wow, your house really looks clean today!" This, of course, after one of my periodic (translation: infrequent) cleaning binges--actually more like rampages--inspired by claustrophobic clutter.

The left-handed compliment--somewhat akin to the loaded question (When did you start doing housework?)--is particularly difficult to respond to. If I coyly reply, "Thank you, I knew you'd notice," I'm blatantly bowing to the insiduous implication that the place usually resembles a pig pen. While that may indeed be the case, wild boars couldn't drag the admission from me. And if such marauding herds of ferociously grinning beasts couldn't do it, you can bet your remote control unit that a whole parlor full of sweetly smiling, but equally carnivorous, human predators couldn't either!

On the other hand, if I confidently remark, with a casual wave of the hand, "Oh, that. I did do a little picking up yesterday," I might come across as too brazenly pompous and shockingly self-assured for their perfectly repressed psyches to bear. (And that's without even considering the basic dishonesty of the statement. I actually worked like a dog--for a week.) But it is my unshakeable conviction that anyone who would intentionally place me in such an uncomfortable spot is infinitely worthy of the most extreme countermeasures. Therefore, if backed into a corner, I will unabashedly choose the casual-wave-of-the-hand response. Every time.

Now, if these individuals were of a more intellectually honest sort, they'd be forthright enough to say what they were really thinking, and I'd then be able to properly defend myself. I could say something profound, like, " I didn't ask to be born!" or perhaps inject a bit of sound reasoning into the equation by pointing out that, "If we were meant to clean house, we would've been born wearing aprons!" All this, of course, immediately before throwing the impertinent snobs out of the house.

I might even confess, somewhat loudly, to their fleeing backs--not to mention the rest of the neighborhood--that, when faced with the difficult choice of whether to buy a pair of practical, warm, wool socks for my son this last cold winter, or an extravagant lamb's wool duster for myself, the socks won, hands down. But, of course, that is as it should be. A mother should be willing to sacrifice for her children. Now, the question might arise as to why I didn't buy a less-expensive feather duster instead, in which case I'd have to admit that I'm a staunch environmentalist: I think feathers belong on birds.

While we're on the subject, in fact, I also firmly believe that household cleaners pollute the environment (indoors, as well as out, which makes them twice as bad!) Besides which, I personally prefer to leave things in their natural state. I pop natural vitamins, eat natural foods, wear natural makeup; and after all, dirty is one of the most natural conditions on the planet--this planet we call earth, which means (you guessed it) dirt.

Cluttered is also a very natural state of affairs. Otherwise, why would every yard that contains a tree be inundated with fallen leaves every autumn? Or why else would every garden be overgrown with weeds every spring? This is obviously the way it was meant to be. Who are we to interfere with the natural order--or rather, the natural disorder of things?

I'm the first to admit that ,every so often, despite my firm convictions to the contrary, I tear everything apart and institute a desperate reorganization effort. (After all, who among us is perfect?) But I don't do it very often.

And alas, even these very cleaning binges confirm the transience of an order imposed, entirely contrary to nature, on the world in which I live. For I'm no sooner finished than I inescapably discover that, as water seeks its own level, likewise clutter begins to inch its way ever-so-subtly back into my existence, dust resumes its relentless buildup on every available surface, and grime marches steadily, incessantly in to once again conquer my artificially ordered universe. I can only conclude, as a result of such overwhelmingly incontrovertible evidence, that this is one battle that obviously wasn't meant to be won.

So, fellow housework-haters, take heart! You are not alone. Your housekeeping au naturel is not without precedent. It is not unjustifiable. Despite the significant stares...the shaking heads...the maliciously whispering tongues, you can rest (literally!) assured in the knowledge that you have nature as your example...your fellows as your inspiration...common sense as your guiding principle...free time as your reward.

So, go ahead. Sit down. Relax. Put your feet up. That's it. Now, grab the remote control and drift guiltlessly into that world of video make-believe. Smile. Bask in the sense of empowerment that comes from knowing that the dust balls forming under the beds, the food spatters building up in the microwave, and the mildew growing in the shower are all a part of nature's majestic scheme.

And never, never, apologize for your untidy house again!