an essay on cleaning.

Nothing brings me the satisfaction of a job well done quite like a gleaming surface can. The lemony scent of anti bacterial Lysol smells better to me than fresh bread at a bakery. I like to clean when I am bored, I like to clean when I am upset. Scrubbing away at that stubborn spot with windex and steel wool is therapeutic. There is something about a spotless room that can calm me down just like a can of cold, diet coke. I am a firm believer in the phrase ‘a clean house is a happy house,’ feel free to pity my future children.
My obsession with clean is a new phase of my life, and joined my collection of other weird habits when I moved out of my mother’s home into a college apartment with cinderblock walls. I suddenly realized that a clean space was a direct reflection upon how clean I could be, or how disgusting my roommates are. When my bed is made, I just appear to look more put together. I fully admit that I think clutter is laziness, and I already feel like a mother when I ask my roommates to move their computers and shoes into their personal spaces. It is obvious to my roommates when I have had a bad day and I think the apartment looks like a war zone; I leave passive aggressive notes that say things like “everyone please move all of your things off of the kitchen table... love you!” Some days I leave a chore chart and make my roommates (who are all responsible adults) sign up for a job that has to be done before they can go to bed that night. The indignant part of me always wins out against the guilt, and I find that have no qualms against bossing my peers around to get what I want.
Perhaps I like to clean a little too much, perhaps I like to be the dominant mother figure of whatever scene I am living in, or perhaps I just can’t control anything in life except how shiny the stainless steel sink is after I do the dishes.