The other night, a friend asked about my apartment. Although it feels like I just moved in, I have been here for 9 months. It was unbelievable that this person had never actually been inside my apartment, which is totally fine, but when he asked me to describe it, I said “it’s spotless” of all things. Don’t get me wrong,
EVER, my apartment is pretty clean, but of all words, I chose “spotless”? Saying that my apartment is spotless would be saying that I have OCD. Saying that it is “clean” (AKA I’m pretty anal, but please don’t call me this) would have been much more fitting.
The “spotless” statement made me feel like a liar.
This morning, before the aforementioned waxing revelation(s), I looked around my apartment and had a long think session.
There was just something about the pure image of clean tile grout, unstained countertops and a clean toilet that just made me smile.
I took it a step further and imagined putting on my angry girl music and my “cleaning chic” clothing (ripped jeans and pajama shirt).
At the end of this sequence, I would jump on my bed repeatedly and dance my little heart out to the newest boy band tune (because I secretly want to be a 12 year old again).
I am now sitting here, waiting for this cleaning session to start. I mean, how much fun am I going to have, right?!?!