For the first time in years, I just finished changing the linen on my California King bed all by myself.
Back before I had a cleaning lady to do the job, my husband used to help me wrestle those sheets in place. But like so many of you, I’m on my own these days and those sheets needed to go in the laundry basket.
Anyhow, I did it, so now I’m giving myself permission to sit down and complain about it.
I have a sneaky feeling that my whining is uncalled for compared to all the challenges others are facing. I’m not going to repeat some of the sad stories I read in this morning’s paper, because then you’d feel dispirited too.
My perpetually upbeat friend tells me she finished “ironing everything in the house, even underwear” but I can assure you that didn’t inspire me to do the same.
I thought maybe it was time for lunch, but I see it’s only eleven o clock, and there must be a better way of making the time go by than stuffing my face.
I used to occasionally complain that Ada, who came faithfully every Friday to clean the house, didn’t always do as thorough a job as I would like.
I thought she could do better at polishing my wood tables and dusting the top of framed pictures. Well, obviously, this is my big chance.
What’s stopping me from getting out the polish and the dust cloth and making my house shine like the morning star? Nothing but despicable sloth ... heavy sigh!
All right, so now that I’ve admitted I’m lazy about doing household chores, how do I propose to while away the hours between getting up and going to bed?
Maybe because I was raised by a family with stern New England roots, the idea of watching television in the daytime gives me chills.
I am currently reading "The Overstory," by Richard Powers. It's a fine book, but it’s about the destruction of old forests and we’ve gotten into a part that’s too depressing for me read more than a few chapters at a time.
I am also reading Mary Karr’s "The Art of Memoir" which takes me back into my own past, horrible breakfasts of oatmeal and prune, my little brother climbing a big maple tree so he could sneak into the window of my second floor bedroom after I locked my door against him. Actually, mine was not a bleak childhood, so why am I conjuring all these miseries?
Eventually memory leads me to a California bungalow in Greenwich, Connecticut when I had three children and no hands to do the housework except mine.
Every week I faithfully changed the sheets on the sleigh bed I shared with my husband. Clean linen on the beds for our son and daughter. And I had to change the sheets for the baby’s crib most every day.
These chores must not have been too burdensome as I have no recollection of doing them.
Clearly the energy of a 29 year old vastly exceed that of an 87 year old, even a healthy one.
Which explains what I’m doing out in my office tap, tap, tapping away hoping to come up with something that will amuse you and use up enough time so that, in good conscience, I can go make myself some lunch.
As always sending wishes for your good health and happiness.
If anyone’s ironing underwear, however, I don't want to hear about it.