World of Inferiors

I came home last Monday from two big installations; exhausted - hungry, with an afternoon alone in the apartment (!) a half eaten block of manchego and Babs and Barry on the record player. Let me tell you this right now; there is no better music to arrange flowers to than Barbara Streisand. You can argue this with me, but I like to think I know what I'm talking about. I got this down.

I had left-over flowers. A fuck ton of them. And so things started getting interesting, scarves strewn, ribbon unraveled. Dresses tried on then discarded in heaps on the floor. Petals dropping, dogs sighing. Remember I told you I've been trying to practice everyday..

This was all fine and dandy until the sun set and I realized the magnitude of what had happened; the mess was epic. As I began to tidy up, I kept finding more and more cleaning to do. And then I went deep.

To get the record straight - to give you a fair idea - I must admit that I have not really cleaned my apartment in 2011. Sure, the occasional swiff. The midweek dusting of the coffee table for cocktail hour. But a deep clean doesn't happen around here. I got other shit to do. Cleaning is for sissies. Like umbrellas.

But Monday I was on a tear. The sort that happens when you have been running on so much adrenalin and momentum that when it comes time to rest, to take some time off - you simply don't know how. Can't stop. Won't stop.

And that is how I found myself on the floor, behind the refrigerator scrubbing moldings. At some point I misplaced my rag and started using the bottom portion of my T-shirt. I became a human mop - a spitting, scrubbing, writhing mess on the linoleum. I had succumbed, slipped down the emotionally charged rabbit hole and entered the void: women's work.

Alarmed and disgusted at myself (who am I? why can't I relax?) I put on hiatus plans to clean the oven, to dust under the bed, to clean all the windows.
I have a pattern of working myself into the ground and then feeling exasperated. When I start to feel bad for myself, Eric does this thing where he puts his pointer fingers and thumbs together and pretends to play the tiniest violin. The saddest music in the world. It's a hilarious (sometimes) reminder that feeling sorry for myself gets me absolutely no where. And it's unattractive. So there it is. Dear Diary - I'm working on being less of a perfectionist and learning how better to relax in my free time. Which is why I just gave myself a manicure - a reversed french one...
Real women's work.