The Sixth Entry: Cleaning to Live (and definitely not the other way around)
On Sundays, I’ve gotten in the habit of cleaning my pseudo-room, and pseudo because my brother inhabited the space for all of 22 years before me and also because I’m technically sleeping here for only three more weeks. Because of this detached relationship I have with my room of beige walls and storage boxes, the cleaning effort on my part has been really pitiable these past few months. Which is why I’ve designated Sunday the official day of room overhaul, so I may live the following six days in blissful neglect. It’s not a perfect system, but it’s my system.
Yesterday, I made it a whole-day affair – as noted on my twitter account. It wasn’t supposed to last so long, but my focus was somewhere on a scale between Jessica Simpson and a goldfish. Every hour or so I’d rationalize a two-hour break to browse the web. A lot of good that did me. By midnight, I was half-way done – meaning I had cleared away enough so that a bit of actual carpet peaked through (impressive stuff).
But really it wasn’t so much cleaning as it was piling – piling magazines on magazines, little purses in big purses, clothes on clothes in drawers, trash in a plastic bag I took home from CVS the day before for buying mascara. I leave dusting, vacuuming, window polishing and even bed making to spring cleaning and lucky for me, I have eight months to go.
I did the best I could – with a broken treadmill at the foot of my bed and my brother’s dated punk CD’s still lining the bookshelf. I transferred the piles of clothing that had been sitting on my desk for the past three months into actual dresser drawers, I stuffed my bank statements under bed and picked up two CVS bags’ worth of trash. Although these bags are still sitting in my room, on top of the treadmill, I consider this vast improvement.
My room has become the final resting place of too many random objects – a Memphis guitar with no strings, mystery over-sized luggage that no one in my family ever purchased, broken picture frames and even a door drame, a football and god knows how many spider are crawling underneath my bed as I’m typing this list.
Confession #1: I have legitimate arachnophobia. At bedtime, when I was a little girl and my parents would turn out the lights, I used to confuse my eyes adjusting to the light with thousands of white spiders descending over me from the ceiling. I’m not positive, but I’m almost certain that over time, as this nightly horror played itself out, I developed a deep-seeded terror towards the eight-legged crawlies.
So I don’t want to know how many spiders cohabitate with me in this beige room above the garage. More than the other rooms of the house I’m sure – that’s just my kind of luck.
In three weeks, I’ll dismantle the “organization” of today, pack it away and ship off to Houston. I hear that spiders are like the state animal of Texas. I hope this isn’t true, just like I hope that humans don’t eat 13 spiders a year.
Exhausted, I find my pillow at 2:30 a.m. and call it a night. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll take out the trash – but if the CVS bags have to go, then so too does the treadmill and the rest of the lot and I don’t have it in me to clear out the character of this room. I’m thinking this Sunday may be the last overhaul. Sweet dreams, spiders.