The yoga studio is always warm with music playing and an instructor standing in the corner welcoming people. Crissy and I enter while laughing at a story I had just told that was intended to make fun of her, but somehow ended with me as the butt of the joke; friendship is like that sometimes, you can never tell where the joke will lead. We have gone to yoga several times since we signed up for our membership, swapping out our former habits with newer, healthier ones. Crissy says we should strive to form an addiction other than drinking red wine together and I know that she is right. So, we drive into the city together and find peace in our new practice.
I am also trying hard to take my chores more seriously, although this act is not as fun as baby-grasshopper or downward facing dog. There is, however, a simple satisfaction in clean counter tops, so I try to keep myself mindful of the messes June and I make throughout the day. On Monday, I didn’t do any chores at all. I let the dishes pile high in the sink and spill onto the counters. After dinner when Sean tried to help, I told him to stop, shooing him away from the mess, too proud to accept his help. On Tuesday, when I woke and walked downstairs, I regretted Monday terribly. I tried my best to stay away from the kitchen most of the morning. Out of sight, out of mind. But at naptime, I surrendered, waving my white flag high in defeat and hanging my head low. I rinsed and scrubbed each dish under the hot soapy water, wondering why I had created this mess for myself.
Sometimes, I become disappointed that so much of my life revolves around dishes, but I know that it will not always be like this. When my house is empty again like it used to be before June was born, I know that I will have different writing topics other than a housewives chores. But for now, I will embrace the experience and try to stack my dishes as nicely as I do my sentences.