Wednesday, 4 June 2014

I don't want to wash up

Or hoover.  Or do the ironing.  Or clean the high chair, put the washing machine on, flash wipe the floor, do the bottles, review the book I should have already read, put buttons on the cardigan, wrap Father's Day presents or file paperwork.  Or the other million things that are jumping around in the corner of my eye, whispering to me - you should've done me by now, why are you so lazy.  Because I just am and I don't wanna so there.

It's not because I'm adverse to keeping house and it's not because I want to live in grime but sometimes I just don't want to do the things I'm *meant* to be doing.  Usually I come up with some wacky way of getting the jobs jobbed by trying to do them all at once in a weird multi-task way that satisfies my OCD tendencies and drives the dearly beloved mental.  No! I'll shout.  You can't wash that up until this glass that I haven't finished using has been rinsed in super hot water that no human can put their hands in and I'm not ready to finish the drink in this glass because I have to go out for five hours and find the absolute most perfect tea towel.  Actually I'm not quite that bad.  By the barest of smidges.  

The mentality flows over into food too - I want to be healthy, I really do, especially when I need to set a great example for the little man but sometimes I just don't want to be good.  I want to have croissants and hot chocolate for breakfast with extra cream.  A juicy burger with fries and onion rings and a sundae of heart hardening wonder washed down with bone thining aspartamine laden diet coke.  Fresh pasta with ooey gooey cheese sauce and garlic bread or maybe a Chinese buffet of sumptuous beigeness.   My inner child rebels every time my growed up voice says you really ought to be doing your jobs, you really shouldn't eat that, you know you'll only regret it in the morning. Ahhh shurrup.  

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