When I'm feeling stressed and powerless, I like to clean. It's something I can do very well, and it makes me feel better to finish up and look at the house and think," there." During my Big College Breakup, for example, you could've assembled circuity in my kitchen like it was one of those men-in-airtight-suits rooms.
Last night I was at a friend's house, and I realized that I was conducting a mental inventory of his apartment and fantasizing about how I would clean it. The place didn't need a cleaning -- in fact it was quite tidy -- but I nevertheless caught myself idly compiling a mental list of how, were it to become soiled, I would tend to the mess. "First I'd get a Swiffer, a wet one, to scrub the ceiling and corners. Then 409 on the fixtures and art, and a Dyson to really go over the sofa." I went on to imagine how I'd clean the oven, repaint the doors, give the cat a trim ...
And I only caught myself doing this because when someone made a comment about the Roomba, my first reaction was to glance at it with suspicion and jealousy. JEALOUSY. Oh dear God, I thought, I resent the cleaning-robot because it's living the sort of life of which I can only dream.
So obviously, the question is, what source of stress could possibly have driven me into this state? Only my friends and family on Vox know for sure.
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