It first occurred to me while sitting on the toilet at my partner’s grandmother’s house. In front of her toilet was on old radiator, and around the bottom of the radiator, where the metal met the linoleum floor, was spotless. All of it. Even towards the back, near the wall, which to clean would have been at best dreadfully inconvenient and most likely fucking impossible. This immediately brought to mind images of my own bathroom at home, which by comparison was a biohazard. The garbage hadn’t been changed in two weeks, and it was full of empty toilet paper rolls that should have been the recycling anyway. The sink was coated in a fine but ever so visible layer of soap scum made even more appealing by the fact that the soap in question was of a patchouli-lavender-organic castor oil-variety and therefore left a scum of a disturbing brown colour, peppered with pieces of some desiccated flower petal. It was this stark contrast that caused me to realize that I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, domestically speaking.
I know this isn’t my job. In fact I so know that this isn’t my job that Andrew often has to ask me if I wouldn’t mind doing a load of laundry since I haven’t done so in 3.75 months and have simply enjoyed the constant influx of clean underwear to my dresser drawer. This is not a matter of outdated obligation so much as it is a matter of being a godamned hypocrite.