That number over there –> is 78,236 this morning, before I get started.

Before I get started, I look around. At the dust in the corner. At the cluttered
coffee table. And so on. And you know what? I’m not going to clean it, because
<drum roll>:

I don’t do housework

There. I said it. I don’t cook, either, although I do know how.

I’ve kept mum about this for all of my 53 years. I’ve met so many women who
judge other women by their houses that the idea of admitting out loud that my
house is a bit of a mess because my men do the housework and I don’t — well,
I’m not brave enough to do that. Honestly, we women can be so mean to each
other.

It’s not a matter of not knowing how to keep a house clean. You don’t need
to refer me to instructional materials. I know, all right. I am so
hyper-organized that I have it down to a science: 2-3 hours, each day, every
day, and the house stays spotless and sparkling. Well, except for my fuzzy
males tramping through and littering, but that’s beside the point.

So why don’t I do it?

Because I hate housework, that’s why. I hate it to the roots of my
toenails. I hate it to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach (with
apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning). Given a choice between a sink full of
dishes and a root canal, I’ll choose the root canal until I don’t have any more
teeth.

Now I have, over the years, managed to stiffen my upper lip and
just do it, for months, even years on end, and every single time, I have
without noticing it sunk into a deep depression, trapped in the eternal
cycle of endless cleaning with no way out.

I finally found the way out. I just don’t do it.

I could tell you why I hate housework so much, but then I’d have to go back
in time and prevent your parents from meeting each other. Telling you why might help you understand, rather than accept, a woman who won’t do housework, and I prefer acceptance.

And now I need to get back to work.