Yesterday, I found myself in the midst of a mid-afternoon cleaning frenzy. I didn't mean to. I'm on spring break and pretty much all I want to do is read books, buy cute shoes and bake cookies. But it always happens the same way. I pass by a shelf or a table that needs dusting and suddenly, I'm on my hands and knees, fetching dust bunnies from radiators. So much for finishing that novel.
Anyway.
This time I noticed a thick coat of dust and grime on top of my refrigerator and as I took a rag to it, I accidentally knocked over a candle holder from the top which of course, promptly rolled backwards and crashed behind. Instantly annoyed at myself for being so klutzy and knowing I was now on a path to tidying madness, I knew I needed to drop everything to pull the damn thing from out of its little alcove and clean up that pile of broken glass. Although not a heavy appliance, the kitchen space I have to work with is entirely ridiculous. Less than two feet across from the fridge is my pantry. Therefore, pulling the fridge out was a little wiggle and pull on one side, then a jog through the sunroom to the other side to do the same. Back and forth, back and forth only to find a pile of under-the-fridge grossness that was very unfortunately NOT just a pile of broken glass. However, I found a few slips of paper, clippings and such, that had escaped their fridgie magnets and had become hidden amongst Baxter's migrating kitty fuzz.
One of these clippings was
this piece written by Rebecca Traister. I had cut it out from a magazine some time ago and stuck it to the side of my fridge. It had resonated so completely with me. Writing. Vino. Cats. Living alone. Mechanical difficulties. Wanting so badly to have someone else just
deal with it once in a while but knowing full well that a broken bookcase, a clogged drain, or a bag of garbage is not going to magically go away by itself.
But then there's that moment when my brain makes the switch and I feel spurred to take on the challenge at hand. I will take a deep breath, do my research, and tackle the task head on. And despite the sometimes agonizing process, I usually feel pretty fantastic by the end of it, even if the shelf does go on the wall backwards. (Yes, I did this. And then re-did it.) It reminds me that I don't need to instantly react with "I can't do this. Send in the troops!" And in Rebecca's case with the bookcase, "There is joy in competence and independence; giddy satisfaction in working, having wine, and fixing things without permission, help or encouragement from partners or parents." Yes, ma'am.
Of course, moving my little refrigerator and cleaning up the gunk behind it wasn't a big deal and didn't result in any sort of exhilaration but it reminded me how good it can feel to function as an independent being who doesn't need to react with "I can't possibly do this" (or for me, the much more common "I really don't want to do this.") I'm sure Rebecca didn't exactly love the fact that she was dealing with her bookcase in the middle of the night just like I wasn't thrilled to have to drop everything to take on the challenges of my itty bitty kitchen space. But calling in the troops feels much more meaningful when the assistance is truly necessary. You know, like when there are tears involved. Or an aching heart. Non-functional light fixtures or pretty much anything that involves getting the step ladder out? Yeah, I hate that stuff but I can deal with it and will feel pretty good at the end of it all. But a wounded heart? That's when you just might get the call to be my back-up. I can repay you with my drain unclogging skills. Deal?
