As I was leaving my job at the tennis club today, I mentioned that I was going home to work on writing. One of my friends commented that she didn't know how I had the energy to go home and do anything after working my shift. She said she was so wiped out when she got home that she usually ended up on the couch with a glass of wine and the remote. Not a bad scenario and one I've adopted more than a few times but that's not what I told her when she asked me how I do it. I have a very simple answer. My house looks like crap.
I wish I needed an excuse to avoid housework but I do not. It has always been on the bottom of my totem pole and now that I have an opportunity to do something I love; to write for someone who actually sends me a check for all my keystrokes, it's become even less important. Every once in awhile I'll squirt some stuff in the toilets, recycle the newspapers or throw a few dishes in the dishwasher; beyond that, my house has been basically left to its own devices.
Luckily, I have a tolerant husband. I know he'd like the house to be cleaner; I know he'd like the clutter to disappear. I know he'd like to come home to something in the oven. But I also know that he's proud of me.
And that feels a whole lot better than having a clean house.
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