I don’t mean to brag, but I have a maid. Yeah, I know I sound elitist and horrible, but at what other moment in my life (in the U.S.) will I be able to say I have a maid? A guilty pleasure…Back in the day, I would have said I didn’t like the idea of having a maid because it made me feel uncomfortable. Those days are gone.
For one, I did make effort to clean cabinets, corners, edges, greasy surfaces, et cetera, but I never seemed to last more than 7 minutes before deciding I’d had enough for the day. At that rate, it would probably take me about six years to clean the kitchen alone. I don’t like to clean so it makes perfect sense to pay someone to do this for me on a weekly basis (maybe once every two weeks, depending on my financial situation). Third, I’ve moved in with someone (my boyfriend) who, it turns out, is very similar to myself. When I say similar to myself, I mean that he doesn’t believe in making the bed, picking up his clothes, doing dishes, or any other kind of chore. In fact, before we moved in together, his mom warned me that he had never washed a plate in his life and that I (yes, I…) was going to have to help him out with becoming more organized.
Obviously, my boyfriend’s mom doesn’t quite know the truth (about me). It’s one thing to live in your own mess, but an entirely different thing to live in someone else’s mess. When you have two similarly non-chore oriented individuals living under one 340 square foot roof, the results can be less than aesthetic. Sorry, family, for 25 years of messiness…