Scrubbing The Toilet Is My Cardio

I’m just wondering…

Does anyone else have timing issues with the gym?  I literally could motivate myself better to prepare for a colonoscopy than psych myself into going to the gym.  Every personal trainer hates my ass primarily because I hate theirs.   When I hear “WOOO you did it” in relevance to a work out I silently fantasize about making a shiv out of a cake tester and that crusty cemented toothpaste (the kind that appears when those peculiarly useless flip tops don’t shut properly) and viciously stabbing their taut fit muscular little physiques  (think opening scenes of Oz) in a fit of childish ire.

I enjoy being active, I truly do.  I love being outside.  I love swimming and yoga and hiking.  I love taking my dog to parks.  I love gardening and working on quirky projects that crop up in my mind and become an obsession until I complete them.  I love turning my house into a home.  It’s been a labor of love.  Truly – in every sense of the term.  My home isn’t the biggest.  It isn’t the most glamorous.  But it’s warm and inviting and cozy and comfortable and it’s ours.  We worked ourselves silly turning four walls into a physical embodiment of our family.  Magilla and I have very different philosophies on levels of clean.  I prefer to not be mortified when people walk into my house because it looks like a pack of sugar-rushed toddlers ran through it destroying all they see like a biblical plague and Magilla is just fine with said scenario.  He does the basics.  But here’s his philosophy on several things which drive me crazy.

If there is something that must be hand washed he will literally leave it on the counter until it becomes a petri dish citing that “he didn’t know”.

If he buys bulk paper towels (by the way we have enough paper towels to clean up China) he will kick them down into the hallway leading to the basement because “they’re out of the way” and call it a day.

If he does laundry, rather than fold it, he will cite that it’s damp and spread the laundry out all over the bedroom.  One cannot shut bathroom doors for privacy (yep I’m a closed door pee-er.  I don’t play well with others in the bathroom).  One cannot make the bed.  One cannot change the sheets.  The clothes could have been in the dryer for 4 hours straight but he will sense dampness like some of us sense danger in a darkened alley.  Mad damp sensing skills has he…

I’m going somewhere with this I promise.  Because of less than stellar pickingupafterourselvesgrownupskills on certain household members radar, most of my physical activity comes from cleaning.  I’d love to tell you that my home is spotless 24/7.  It’s not.  I’d love to tell you that I make my own pasta and bake everything from scratch.  I don’t.  I’d love to tell you that I my hair is styled daily and glimmers with the intensity of liquid platinum.  It doesn’t.  I would love to tell you that I remember to call my mother daily.  I don’t.  Magilla has his faults but they’re minor in comparison to the 85 I flaunt on a daily basis.  I’d love to tell you that I can quote the types of paint and techniques used in every painting silhouetted in the Louvre.  I can’t.  I’d love to tell you that I drive a Porsche.  I don’t.  I’d love to tell you that I don’t speak to my dog as if she’s a human.  I do.  I’d love to tell you that I think like a normal person.  I don’t.  And I don’t go to the gym.

So until such time that I can get off my duff/high horse?

Scrubbing the toilet is my cardio.

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