I spent the vast majority of my day yesterday cleaning the apartment. I hadn’t done this kind of a cleaning since before classes started in the fall, which is just so embarrassing to admit, especially since I used to do it every single weekend. I didn’t wash my windows or scrub my walls or dust my baseboards or anything like that. This was just routine stuff… dusting, vacuuming, laundry (including sheets and towels and staggered in such a way that I even washed what I was wearing in the morning), kitchen and bathroom floors, kitchen in general, bathroom in general, and all around general tidying.

Pippin did not appreciate this activity. Not one bit. He spent the day under the bed.

As I worked I kept telling myself that this would be so much easier (and so much less gross) if I just did a little bit every day, or every weekend. When did I stop caring so much if the kitchen floor wasn’t swept every night, or if the folded laundry stayed piled on the dresser rather than tucked away into it? When did it become ok for dishes to sit in the sink waiting (of all things) until I put away the clean ones in the dishwasher and made room for the dirty ones? When did the bare minimum begin to pass for enough?

But just as I caught myself saying that 20 minutes every evening wouldn’t kill me I realized that it’s just not that important. Right now other things (like my new Japanese lessons, or my exciting-but-daunting new work projects) take pretty much all of my energy, and I’m ok with that. As long as this place doesn’t turn into a sty, I’m ok with a little dust. I’ll get to it when it absolutely needs it.

Of course, my problems would be solved if I hired somebody to do this kind of thing for me… but that’ll never happen.