And the dish ran away with the spoon


I am perfectly capable of finishing this scene.  I have this chunk attached from the first iteration and I’ve been clinging to it in hopes that I can so

Having the day off and the day off tomorrow for the holiday is glorious.  It is helping my brain reconnect with the rest of me.  I am hoping in some way that the intensity of the organizational aspect of my little retail job will spur me into scullery mode back here in the privacy of my own chambers.  All day long, you leap up to thoroughly review the racks for singles, mismatched hangers, sizing out of order, anything amiss.  If those are suitable, your eyes are meant to searchlight the rest of the shop for any paper, any fingerprints on display cases, the gift wrapping shelves need a restock.  You are meant to correct imperfection.  Imperfection is gross.

As one co-worker explained, everything has a place.  There’s nothing that needs to be left out.

It is funny how my mind wants to chastise them for this.  No one is asking for perfection. No one takes a severe tone about it.  It is just normal for the clothes to need to be put back on the rack so that someone else can find them and buy them.  It is just good business to be ready to make a sale, to have the view clear and unobscured.  In my mind, I take it as though I am being asked to maintain a glass bottom boat.  That a thing wrong risks everything.  It’s carryover from the other job where I was told we can’t seem to get anything right.  I want to not pollute it with my wrongness.

It’s laughable how strong that statement feels, but it also rings true to me.

My mother used to be as these mothers I work with are.  She’s also someone who does what we do, albeit in a massive retail chain and not an individual store.  Looking around the house, wanting it to be like the pictures in Better Homes and Gardens, and encouraging us to clean things up. All the while, my head was in fifty feet of cloud.  Always just around the bend from another cleaning binge because between them, I just leave this wake of unattended crap. But thinking back, slowly over time as we grew and she had far more pressing issues to attend to, she gave up on the severity.  She cleans her place because she wants it clean.  She doesn’t focus on the minutiae in corners.  She maintains her glass-bottom vessel because she lives in it and she’d like to see the fish.

It’s not about drowning.  It’s about happiness where you are.  Would that I could come down for a minute and stop the all or nothing thinking and just…breathe in my boat.

That’s weird.  I didn’t really want to write about cleaning…there’s plenty of other things to talk about, actually.  But I will save it for the morning, friends.  Save myself.

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