Therapy.

I may be on my own on this one, but I take great pleasure in cleaning my little corner of the world. Although my apartment is small, it feels like a palace after it has been polished and thoroughly cleaned. Each week I ritualistically scrub, sweep, and shine, and I relish in the heavy-scent of Lysol, Pine Sol, and Ajax that hovers in the air. I cannot control the snow. I cannot control world-politics. And I cannot control the price of Maggie Moo's ice cream. But I can control the state of my home, and I am addicted to the instant gratification that comes from cleaning.
Perhaps one the greatest lessons that my mom has ingrained within me is that a house needs to be cleaned from top to bottom each week. Ideally I would clean everyday and not just mere tidying or spot cleaning. Granted, I do not have children and I do not even live in a house so my feelings may change over time. But after much self reflection I have come to the conclusion that I could easily live in a bubble. Some may call my inclinations tidy, but I think that I teeter on manical. I despise germs, grease, and dreaded dust mites. I shiver at the thought of having bacteria and mold dwelling in my house unnoticed.

In a perfect world I could go to work, cook dinner, spend quality time with Rob, watch American Idol, and still deep clean. I hold myself back not because of lack of energy, but because I also notice that my tendencies may not be normal. If you were to come to my apartment on any given day it would not be spotless. But believe me when I say that the desire is there. Though my aspirations are not practical (sadly Idol is only on twice a week), I do enjoy watching my house transform into a Mr. Clean masterpiece each week.

And for my readers who have chauvinistic visions of me vacuuming in a 1950's apron and pumps while Rob puts his feet up that your doubt simply isn't true. Rob is a happy and willing participant in my "therapy."