“Crud,” villian under Christopher Robin’s bed. And possibly my shower.

There’s something about vacuuming that makes me feel like I am taking control of my life.

Rest assured, the task is no dainty picture of domesticity (though I have the pearls and lipstick to make it happen).

Contrary, friends. It’s an aggressive reclaiming of space and sanity.

It’s a time when I’m forced to address things I’ve “buried under the rug” so to speak. For instance: Everything I own is covered in coffee. Sometimes peanut butter.

It really is a soul search, which warrants a post-exploration pat on the back or some seriously heavy drinking. Personal best: In record time, I am able to assess the effort it takes to pick up a penny in the vacuum’s path and decide, barely blinking, to charge instead. No regrets.

Cleaning leads to so many discoveries. And more discoveries, and more discoveries, and ARE YOU KIDDING? I suspect I will be bald by age 25.

But.

There’s something therapeutic about throwing things out, about recycling piles and piles of papers, about discarding the leftovers of your life. About taking mounds of “mess” and turning it into orderly piles that you make disappear.

There’s a dynamic to cleaning that I wish carried over to other parts of my life. Specifically, an occasional, healthy disregard for long-term consequences. Like that singular liberating moment when you seize that tiny ziplock bag of miscellaneous replacement parts in the drawer and say, “I don’t know what you are, but by god, I am throwing you out!”

Just like that.