I get to feel superior to socks when I am conquering a load of laundry.
That is sort of cool, isn’t it?
There’s a swathe of the backyard that is leaf-free. Just one corner. (Well it was yesterday). I did that. I own that.
Housework is menial work. Which is to say “humble” or “lowly” and “lacking prestige.” The work of a servant is the work of “dogsbody”. Such words hold the muscle will of those who built our country.
Nothing so simple as completing a home task can make me feel so satisfied.
A clean refrigerator. The freshly cut grass. Weeded garden. Laundry done.
I do not desire to spend my day in service to my home. But I do not regret it either.
When I’ve loaded the dishes, again– another meal in the endless cycle of food — I survey the clean counters, like prairies mowed and ready for seed.
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