I've Fallen in Love with Boring Adult Tasks
But I need to break up with them and get back to writing
Over the past year, I’ve become a little too focused on boring adult stuff. Never has my kitchen, and my dishwasher in particular, received so much attention. Every night, I crack open the door when it’s done – to prevent mold or mildew, a possible problem I read about somewhere once. I can damn near intuit the moment it will beep to signify the cycle is finished, often rising from my bed at exactly that moment. I think it's happy about that. I think I might be in a parasocial relationship with my dishwasher.
My love affair has extended into curating perfect shopping lists and being weird about the direction beverage labels face in my fridge. And I love some home organization. Even my dog’s random possessions, like the booties she will never willingly wear, are organized on a special little shelf we recently installed.
Truly, what have I become? I am the embodiment of the only funny commercials on television – the ones where people are turning into their parents. Except my parents weren’t even like this. Our house was clean-ish, but we had a bulging, chaotic coupon drawer that was like a museum archive of past deals on pizza. You had to wear gloves if you wanted to dig to the bottom. We also had a basement filled with everything – and I mean that literally. It was as though old dressers, playhouses, and a random swing had arrived through a wormhole. Human hands would not have been capable of bringing all that stuff down there.
But at least it was interesting to root through the piles. I fear I’ve become a little too focused on boring stuff, eschewing creative writing – one of the things that gives my life color – in favor of clean dishes, folded laundry, and lists upon lists upon lists. I used to be a little more lackadaisical about my physical surroundings, and I don’t think I was worse off for it. (My spouse, an engineer organized right down to his inbox, might gently protest.) The only evidence of the disorganization that wants to come out of my soul is in my digital life, which is a red-level disaster. I’m near 10,000 unread emails in my Gmail, and I do wonder at what milestone they send you a little bottle of champagne.
I’m determined to get back to creative pursuits instead of constantly organizing. Otherwise, I’m afraid I’ll organize the junk drawer, which I’m certain is bad luck.
The problem was that I kind of ran out of writing steam. I wrote a full manuscript during the height of the pandemic that still lives exclusively on my desktop. If my book is going anywhere, it’s moving imperceptibly slowly. Adult tasks are much more predictable than trying to query a book, which is probably why they suddenly became so appealing to me. Writing, in general, isn’t exactly comforting. Sometimes when you sit down to write, crap comes out. Worse, sometimes you write something you think is great that gets 16 rejections (pour one out for my favorite essay).
Instead of worrying about all of that, I've been thinking about more important issues, like when the sheets might be due for a wash. Or even when the dog’s bed is due for a wash. Hell, maybe a couch cushion could use some cleaning. The possibilities are endless.
The sense of accomplishment I get from tending to stuff like that is as brief and fleeting as it gets. But when I’m on a good writing flow, I come online. It’s almost like a wall I didn’t know was up suddenly falls down. My desk gets filled with sticky notes full of random ideas and snack wrappers and I can already feel my spouse wincing (he’ll be alright).
My goal to get back to my hobby is going to require getting some confidence back. After retreating into my comfort zone for so long, it’s hard to remember that I have agency over things beyond my immediate physical surroundings. The decisions I make when I write are entirely up to me, and they are infinitely more complex than deciding how to organize the zillions of half-eaten chip bags in my pantry so they stop falling off the shelf. (I’ve yet to come up with a solution, so I might not be cut out for Marie Kondo-ing.)
I need crumpled-up papers, little writing-fuel snack bowls left everywhere, and to forget to put the laundry in the dryer because I’m glued to the computer. Inevitably, rejections and uncomfortable feelings await me there. But so do incredibly satisfying ones – sometimes. They’re worth the mess.