I cleaned my bathroom today. This is no small achievement.
My lessor and I have different tolerances for grime. Bob thinks: "If it looks clean, it is clean." I, however, think: "If it smells clean, it is clean." This discrepancy in sanitation preference leads to an interesting bit of tension. "Bathroom's looking a little dusty, Scott." "Really? I was in there this morning and it smelled fine."
A thorough scrubbing every three weeks satiates me. On the other hand, Bob would seem to prefer it get a scrubbing weekly; I gather so because he more than once has stepped up to the plate in place of me and cleaned the bathroom between the one and three week mark since the last cleaning. And, ay, there's the scrub, for after coming home and finding my bathroom sparkling without my doing, a wave of guilt floods me (this indicates that, for all my failures, I might be trainable--take note, ladies). But of course, I can't just clean an already pristine lavatory again as means of recompense. Rather I vow to clean the presently antiseptic room again once it has grown filthy once more.
Herein lies the delicate dance. For at once, the bathroom must become dirty to justify disinfecting, yet at the same time, if it grows too soiled, then Bob will take it upon himself to clean it, and my contrition will double. Trapped between this shameful Scylla and noisome Charybdis, victory takes a precise mix of martial scheduling and cleanly intuition.
Today the room was redolent and ripe--I had a full roll of paper towels, a rag, and an mp3 player chocked to the brim with Mozart. Bob was distracted downstairs.
I threw open the door, pulled out the cleanser, and set upon the sink.
And now, it is glorious, truly, with counters like mirrors, mirrors like still water, and a tub that's ready for display in the Louvre with other skillfully touched-up sculptures.
Alas, they say a thing of beauty is beautiful forever--if only!