...I become less perfect. Or care less about being perfect, maybe. I do my best to do everything that is my life but certain things, like cleaning the house, fall through the cracks. I've found my standards have become lower and lower as I age. Today, for instance, someone is coming over and all I've done is:
- pick up visible clutter, well, mostly
- vacuum
- sweep
- clean bathroom, well, mostly. Damn kids and their toothpaste! Do they really need cavity free teeth that badly?
- close doors of really horrible rooms
There are still dishes to be done, kids' things scattered about, blankets on all the furniture, piles of mail on the counter. Not to mention the dust and the Halloween decorations are still up. Well, the dust could count as Halloween decorations, right?
I wish I cared more, cared enough to make it a priority but I just don't. I never have and surely never will. I can only become more comfortable with my squalor and resign myself to it. You can come to my house and feel better about your own. That is the person I've become.
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