Responsibility

I’ve declared this next year as “The Year I Finally Grow Up and Start Acting Like a Responsible Adult.”

It started after I quit my awful job and suddenly had lots of free time while I looked for other employment. I was tooling around the house one day, eating Cheetos straight out of the bag and playing Oblivion, while waiting to hear something from the thirty companies I’d contacted earlier in the week. I hadn’t bothered to shower or get dressed, and was covered in a combination of cat hair, Cheeto dust, and sleep sweat. The house was an absolute wreck – I hadn’t vacuumed in months, all of our dishes were dirty and complexly stacked in our sink, and there was something growing out of our toilet that had me seriously considering digging a privy pit in the backyard rather than facing it again.

I got up to go rummage in the pantry after I’d finished off the Cheetos. On my way to the pantry, I passed a pile of dry cleaning that I’d picked up in a fit of responsibility rather more than two weeks ago. Why is that still there? I thought as I glared down at it. Why has nobody put that away?

And then it struck me. This is MY house. Nobody is following me around and picking up after me (my husband being off the hook as he has an actual job). This was so revolutionary to me that I immediately called my mother:

“Mom! I get it! Nobody’s picking up after me anymore!”

“Sweetie, I feel like I failed a little bit as a mother if you just realized this today. We worked on that for fifteen years while you lived at home.”

“But I GET it now!”

“How are those job applications coming?”

Spurred my new understanding of how the domestic world works, I immediately tackled the dishes in the sink. After that, I dragged the vacuum out. It nearly gave two of my cats heart attacks, as, though we adopted them months ago, they had not been with us long enough to have witnessed a vacuuming. Finally, armed with a scrub brush and a homemade hazmat suit, I attacked both bathrooms. It was a vicious battle, but I emerged victorious and without contracting cholera.

When I was done, I was filthy, tired, and sneezing uncontrollably from all the dust I kicked up, but the house sparkled. I then turned my attention to myself. I showered, taking the time to both wash my hair and shave my legs. After my shower, I plucked my eyebrows and put on makeup. Full makeup. Even though I wasn’t going anywhere. Then, instead of my fleece penguin pajama pants, I opted for jeans and a tasteful t-shirt.

I emerged from my bedroom. I felt my animals looking up to me with a newfound respect. I spent the rest of the afternoon doing adult things like menu planning, paying bills, and organizing closets. I imagined my husband coming home, gasping in shock, and immediately sweeping me off my feet to either a romantic dinner or an evening of shoe shopping, all while weeping tears of gratitude that we no longer had to live in our own filth and that his wife actually owns real pants.

And then a week later, we were back to square one. Wait, I thought, the full horror of the situation slowly dawning on me, I have to keep doing this? Every single week? Every single day?

It turns out that being a responsible adult is not something that can be accomplished in one cleaning and personal hygiene session, however epic. But, I will not lay down my burden, as I am entirely too old to go back to living like a freshman dude in his first apartment. I am determined to conquer domesticity and dressing like an adult.

Just as soon as I finish these Cheetos and hit level 10.