Filth

I vacuumed the upstairs rooms in my house last weekend.

Cue the epic event music.

I know, big whoop, huh?

Except…it had been months since I’d done this. Yes, I feel much shame over this fact. I suppose I’ll get over it someday.

I’d be over it sooner if not for the fact that the canister that holds all the filth that was sucked up off the floor was full when I was finished with the three bedrooms and the hallway.

I should have emptied the thing and then vacuumed each room again, just because there were some serious filth on those floors.

I knew it was time to vacuum (way past time, if you must know) when it felt like the hair that had accumulated on those floors felt like it was reaching up and wrapping itself around my toes when I walked through a room.

It was gross.

We’re gross.

Maybe I’ll vacuum up there again this coming weekend.

Then again, maybe not. Now that there isn’t a wig forming on the floors, I’ll probably conveniently forget about the hair and skin we shed every single day that is falling to the floors to create all kinds of nastiness.

Okay, sure, maybe I will vacuum up there again sooner rather than later.

It’s not like I enjoy living in filth.

But for what it’s worth, you know you’re a grown up when you feel a huge sense of accomplishment when you manage to vacuum carpets, change all the sheets on all the beds in the house and still cook dinner for your family. Yeah, I’m right up there with Martha Freaking Stewart.