an ode to cleaning

inspired by the real life situations that went down this afternoon.

never mind the monsters in the closet, those beasts are child's play. the real enemy lacks a sinister guffaw and ugly scar. the real enemy is not a shadowy creature looming around the graffitied corners of long abandoned ally ways. the real enemy, the one that your parents always warned you about, is the mess of your own room. or life. crack open the door to your once easy living boudair and fall into a pit of chaos, disaster, and worst of all the fact that you have let your inner sanctum become so unkempt. tsk tsk. you tumble over laundry baskets filled with half dirty clothes and half clean clothes, but at this point even you cannot find the distinction. those piles might as well be cain and abel. 

after pivoting and gyrating your hips to avoid the leftover microwave from your college days, all the while deftly avoiding to step on the sewing scissors that have become buried under the latest project, you feel the uneasiness of the walls. suddenly you are in the middle of a vast land. a land of your own trash. clothes, sheets, dirty dishes, and fifth grade year books as far as the eye can see. finding it difficult to pry your feet out of the hackneyed first position of the art of ballet, because after all that is the only amount of room that you have dedicated to your once dancer's feet, to stand. standing in the middle of the room, your room, is odd, strange, and eccentric. but making it to the bed is even more of an unfamiliar entity. 

contemplating whether or not you can still nail that split that you used to be so proud of in your years of cheerleading so that you can be just a wee bit, a tad really, closer to the bed. cheerleading, oh remember those times. where is my year book? oh, yeah. hiding like a petrified dog in a thunder storm under all of the rubbish that somehow appeared overnight. there is no way, no path, no insightful idea to crack open and gently scramble over the heat of a frying pan to get you out of this mess. unless.

unless, you pick something up. anything really! just reach in there and grab something. oh, whoa ok not too far, i think that pile just barked. something floating on the surface, aha this library book which, no doubt is over due. no wonder you don't have any money. it all goes to the library. well, my dear community you are welcome. i hope this means that the library will buy more meg cabot books. i digress. with one book in your feeble hands you gain a sense of, what is the word for it? empowerment. 

then, only then, like the tazmanian devil in reverse you swirl, cha cha, bachata, and two step your way through the muck, the clutter, and the unkown. at last, the floor is visible, the designer sunglasses have been found, and most importantly, you found .75 cents. queen of the world? not quite. but you are .75 cents closer to a chai tea latte. or that stupid library find.