There are exactly 2 times every year I actually enjoy cleaning. Well, one, if someone else is hosting Thanksgiving or Christmas.
My well-publicized crappy house cleaning keeping skills aside, I am actually a halfway decent cook, and as anyone who has seen my girlish figure can attest I like to do it too. I especially like throwing the big dinner with all the trimmings and the china (most of it inherited or found at yard sales).
But what I’m always surprised about is how, once I get started, that I actually enjoy cleaning in anticipation of a big day – or when six weeks of my immobility have generated roaming dust bunnies with fangs.
Last Saturday I walked 10 or 15 miles around the house, picking up a bit of clutter or putting away that pile of laundry. I have no illusions that I’m anywhere near as fit as I was this time last year when I had just completed my first 12K race or that this week I’ll suddenly remember cleaning can be fun. But after almost two months of being mostly confined to the recliner I kind of enjoyed faking it.
