The state of being clean and free from dirt, and the process of achieving and maintaining that state.
My mother ran a clean house. She is the type of woman that if something were to begin to spill, magically it would be wiped up before it even hit the floor. We joke that our pantry was alphabetized.
She gets a high from going to the container store. From finding the container that’s the perfect fit. She snaps it into place and gets an euphoric feeling and squeals, “I did it!” She loves the accomplishment of completing a task.
Not me. I love to collect. Each card I receive somehow just can’t be thrown away. I don’t pick up my piles of stuff to process them because to be honest, I don’t see them. I don’t see the piles of mail, or tupperware, or old make up. Isn’t that something?
And yet I know I’m not the only one. There are others (thank God) and this makes me feel slightly more normal. I’m not a bonafide hoarder, but I am one heck of a pack rat.
I take solace in the fact that my sister isn’t clean either. We both suffer from not processing our stuff, for not having a system in place. Somehow this life lesson of cleanliness, or the genetic DNA we were supposed to receive didn’t happen.
Now that I’m in my thirties, I’ve decided to make up for lost time. Teach this old dog new tricks. It’s time to get my house in order.
I think I’ll start with the master bathroom.