Here I am in my late 30s, that prime age before middle age sets in. The 20-something insecurities are a distant memory, and we women are supposedly in our sexual peak.
Yet what is my most tantalizing fantasy? Hiring a cleaning service.
There. I said it.
My husband is an amazing, loving, caring, dynamic man, but a still a yet-to-be reformed trash-ignoring, crap-oblivious, dust-plagued dirt magnet.
I like a clean house — a spotless house, in fact, where everything is in order. It runs in the family. Legend has it that my grandfather liked to scrub floors in the nude. One day while doing just that, he answered the door to a young George Voinovich campaigning for mayor of Cleveland. The future governor of Ohio apparently went through his whole spiel while my grandfather stood in the buff and questioned him. But I digress …
With three kids under the age of 5, I find cleaning with clothing preferable. And forget spotless; just having a relatively tidy house is a never-ending battle — and one I fight alone. My husband is an amazing, loving, caring, dynamic man, but a still a yet-to-be reformed trash-ignoring, crap-oblivious, dust-plagued dirt magnet. Bless his heart.
Related: The Home Cleaning Wars
Between my boys, ages 5 and 2, and my man, the picking, wiping, mopping, and sopping up never ends.
I put one item away, another flies across the floor. I vacuum up cereal and another bowlful falls and is pulverized to bits. I tell my boys to clean their spots after breakfast, and yet the husband has left for work leaving his dirty bowl behind. For me.
The dog shreds a paper towel leaving more detritus in my path. At least the pooch has the decency to eat the spilled baby food.
When I see the angels dressed in maid uniforms filing into friends’ homes, I turn green with envy.
I’m not jealous of my neighbors’ brand new cars or designer bags in the uber-expensive Washington, D.C., region where I live. But when I see the angels dressed in maid uniforms filing into friends’ homes, I turn green with envy.
I grew up in the Midwest where everyone cleaned their own home unless they were extremely well off. I had friends whose place butted up against a golf course, and I think even they cleaned their own place.
A few years ago, I got a taste of what this good life was like when I lived in Malaysia. In Southeast Asia, pretty much everyone middle class or above has a maid who does everything — cook, clean, laundry, nanny, babysit. I worked out a deal with my neighbor’s maid to sneak over to our place twice a week to clean and fold laundry, a covert effort so she could make more money and move home to her family sooner. For me, it was a dream come true.
Now, back at home, I trudge through the chores, scrubbing my own bathtub and wiping down toilet seats. It is thankless work, and relentless. But whenever I think of investing in unmitigated joy that is a cleaning service, I remind myself that money is going to my children’s college funds, my retirement savings, and to the skyrocketing cost of our grocery bills.
I should be thankful to clean because I’m able to do so.
I wince, then I smile, put on my well-worn cleaning gloves — and get back to work.
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