Further proof free-time pursuits are evolving from salacious, purely hedonistic and primal hobbies*, I ache instead in anticipation of the UPS man and a big package. My Dyson is coming, a clean machine with 12 amps of suction power and patented cyclonic technology.
I’m a clean, clean girl. The towels in my master bath are folded like those found in a vacation hotel, perfect creases and leveled hems. Fresh carpet tracks get me hot, so does the smell and crispness of just washed sheets.
Not certain where this near OCD obsession came from, but I’ve long suspected it had to do with living in small spaces. With one girl and three boys in the family, I had my own bedroom growing up, complete with white canopy bed and Bay City Rollers poster. However when the parents split then divorced, I shared a small apartment bedroom at Mom's with my younger brother and was relegated to the living room sleeper sofa at Dad’s.
Yearning to break free from Mom and husband two of three, my first solo apartment at 17 was spacious and luxurious; I had my own ‘fridge and tub. Soon though, I was sharing room 222 Libby Hall on the campus of the University of Colorado. Dorms are boxes, really, a perfect square of tile flooring, one wall composed of mostly heating vents and twin beds separated by mere feet. A virgin at the time, I was somewhat amused, mostly embarrassed, by the groans and grunts coming an arms length away when the roommate had an awkward boy over.
I found a pretty, pretty roommate, his daughter, and a pretty, pretty condo in the paper a few months after graduation. My private room included a balcony and jetted tub. Hymen still intact, I wholly embraced bubbles coming from four directions; my roommate must have thought me a very, very clean girl. He and the kid moved to Cali, I to a little flat over a pub and around the corner from Boulder's best tattoo shop. I loved it there, close to work and close to alcohol, the only downside the Saturday morning crescendo of glass when the recycling truck came for a weeks worth of pick up. Again I lived with a man, a roommate with other potential, but stayed (technically) a virgin the duration of the lease. It was the first time sharing a bathroom with a grown man and I must ask, why all the pee? I get sometimes the penis acts like a garden hose laying in the grass turned full blast, swinging and writhing, but if you sprinkle when you tinkle, please be sweet and wipe the seat (or the wall or floor or hamper behind you), yes?
My current three-level, home for eight years now, is starting to feel small. I pant at the thought of a private home office, spare bedroom, garage. A garden.
I know, more to clean.
*to change at my immediate discretion and mere enjoyment should the situation and man arise (dirty)