Cleaning
There was a time when I dutifully squeegeed the water off the shower glass and walls. Then that time passed. I am now paying for my sins. For the last week I have stood, fully clothed, in my shower, working with vinegar, lemons, and elbow grease to remove the built up scale from the glass. It is, to say the least, tedious work. But I am emerging victorious. To a degree. There will be no perfection, but it will be better.
Of course, I have no idea why I’m obsessed with this. I’m the only one who sees it. I suppose it goes all the way back to my mother who made her boys clean every Saturday morning. As the oldest, I usually got the bathroom. The tools were elemental, scouring powder, a rag, and water. Then came the Navy and field day every Thursday, and the heads were a big deal. Finally, came marriage, three kids, and two and a half baths. Cleaning appears to be in my blood. Weird fixation.
Of course, while I might find the work tedious, I suppose it’s useful to remember how many people don’t have homes like mine with a shower to clean or a kitchen to cook in and be grateful for what I have. I’m a fortunate son, born into the middle of the 20th century, in a wealthy country, with an economy where I could make a living simply by thinking. And I could do all this without being to the manner born. Cleaning my own shower seems a small price to pay.