Yesterday, I used a steam cleaner for the first time.
I realize I’m stating this like an AA introduction.
While it’s nowhere near as destructive as an actual, physical addiction, I’m not entirely certain that the usage of said steam cleaner didn’t send me down the path of Bad Choices. Oh, it started out innocently enough…
I secured the grout attachment (bringing the tally of times I’d even considered doing anything “grout-related” up to, oh, about one) and took a whack at the kitchen table. It’s got tile. It’s got coated wood. It’s got…coated food. I had seriously considered investing in a new table and burning this one in effigy to the Gods of Housekeeping rather than deal with anything “grout-related.” (Does the fact that I keep referring to it in quotes tip off the level of aversion?)
The steam cleaner warmed up. I (properly!) added the right amount of water and cleaning solution to separate yet equal compartments. I even scanned the user manual. (I never, never do this. There’s no time. I am a professional. I am super impatient.) I pressed the lever. It…cleaned the hell out of the table. Oh, it was hard to tell at first, what with the grey particles flying everywhere and the layers of sadness being scoured from an otherwise emotionally neutral table.
I add this photo to show that a) the white grout had previously been a solid Not White, and b) to show the world that yes, the table is clean, but still flecked with crazy amounts of GLITTER. Those crumbly spots are STEAM-RESISTANT GLITTER.
It was so impressive that I yelled for Suzy to come check it out.
The level of Questionable Choices I must have attained to call an otherwise occupied four year-old into a room to check out a solo project was most likely off the charts.
That said, she was super impressed.
And totally wanted to help.
So we kept going. Curtains were steamed, couches were steamed, floors, showers (shower heads!), more floors, more upholstery, rugs, throw pillows (and re-thrown pillows)…all steamed with the appropriate attachment and level of enthusiasm.
But Keely, you might ask. Don’t you have a job? Children? Deadlines? Meal prep? Carpools and laundry and phone interviews? Yep!
My therapist refers to this as “aversion.” (She probably calls it something less kind when I’m not around.) She’s recently gotten me to admit that there are two types of cleaning I do. “Cleaning to survive,” i.e. pots n’ pans and mismatched socks n’ toothbrushes n’ things that, left unsanitized, will most likely give me Ebola. Then there’s “cleaning to prove a point to someone who’s most likely not even in the room and yes, sometimes it can even be me, mentally,” which also is great friends with the habit of “rearranging furniture and people until I can pretend I live anywhere else with anyone else” and yes, those are totally clinical terms.
And sure, maybe the steam is a metaphor for vaporizing bad habits and grasping for control. Perhaps I think that I’ve solved something- anything- in terms of preventing the imminent grubby-ing of my homestead and it’s made me drunk with power.
Or maybe it’s a big ol’ warning bell, ringing the proclamation that OCD is alive n’ well n’ super whimsical.
Either way, my table is currently spotless and that- momentarily- makes my heart feel a-ok. I’d invite you over to see its glory, but you’d have to be okay with eating in a different room or something.
(The steam cleaner is packed away for the week.)
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