We are seven weeks from take off, and my apartment is not even clean.
I know, I know, I said I would clean it. I said so! But I didn’t. I pondered it a lot. I successfully took out my trash this week even! But the apartment is not clean. The tub is clean now, but the apartment is not.
I decided it might help to start packing, since that’s something I need to do anyway. Accordingly, my goal for this Saturday, if I don’t end up doing another training hike, is packing up all non-necessary living room items. Wish me luck!
This morning I finally told my boss(es) that I would be leaving. Unexpectedly, the process involved me crying a lot. I guess I had built the conversation up in my head, letting it become the object of most of my fear about the trip. I’m sure that I will find another object of fear, but at the moment I feel a great deal more excited and bouyant about the whole affair than I have for quite some time.
Later, my friend Evan and I went to lunch and he told me he thought I was acting much happier, so I guess I’m not the only one who thinks that I was freaking out about this a bit overmuch.
In other news, last night I found my scrubbing rag and set to cleaning my kitchen with a vengeance. I am only halfway done with the project, but it is in my opinion an auspicious beginning to a week of cleanliness. Pictures of my suddenly clean house soon!
May I begin by stating the potentially obvious: I am not a clean person. Take, for example, my kitchen. Or rather, don’t take it. You don’t want to be involved in anything to do with my kitchen. It is gross. I spent hours washing dishes last night, and I am not done.
Or perhaps you might peruse my bedroom. It’s a mess. My boyfriend keeps going on about how I am never going to fit all of my things in anyone’s basement (which is the plan, because I don’t want to pay for storage space). I think he is perhaps correct, so I’ve been attempting to look critically at my clothing items, currently scattered every which where, and decide what I should try to sell or give away. It is a thankless task.
Or one could cast an eye to my living room (floor scattered with papers and other sundries, among them currently a bagpipe) or my rather tiny bathroom, currently speckled with mold because it just does that and I don’t feel like climbing up on the sink to scrub the cieling yet again. But scrub I must. All must be spotless, for soon my lovely and beloved, cozy and cluttered apartment will be invaded by prospective inhabitants.
Too bad I am not naturally of the cleanly nature.