Thoughts While Cleaning a Shelf Used to Store Cleaning Supplies

Thoughts while cleaning a shelf used to store cleaning supplies (at work, because why would I ever clean things at home?):

Why did she choose me of all people, to do this highly detailed cleaning task? If she saw my house for a split second, she wouldn't even let me clean things. I should not be cleaning things.

I hope they don't think I wasn't hesitant to do this because I'm lazy. I am not lazy. I just hate doing things I'm bad at. I just want to succeed all the time.

I'm going to fail.

I wonder if "frustrated perfectionism" is a real thing, or if it's just something neurotic Type B people made up to make themselves feel better for not trying. 

Seriously, though. Look how bad I am at scrubbing this drawer. Am I supposed to be scrubbing this drawer? Is scrubbing drawers even a thing that people do? 

It's not my fault, though. It's totally because my mom used to vacuum when she was angry. It was probably cathartic for her, so it's definitely fine that she did that. It's just that I now associate all cleaning with anger, and I'm a peace-loving creature by nature, so I naturally must avoid all cleaning. It's not my mom's fault. It's not my fault. It just is. And that's fine. 

I'm pretty sure this bottle of cleaning stuff is corroded. I don't even know what this cleaning stuff is. Am I supposed to be wiping down the actual bottle of cleaning stuff? Is that expected? Is that a thing people do?

I searched my files, and lo and behold, there are exactly no
pictures that are even remotely cleaning-related. So here
is a picture of me in a bunny suit. You're welcome.

See? I'm just not an expert at this at all. There are things I'm innately good at, and this is not one of them. I shouldn't be doing it, that's all.

Wow. That's the attitude that got me here in the first place. Here. In a coffee shop. I am a 35 year old woman sitting on the floor of a coffee shop scrubbing bottles of scrubbing solution. This is what my life amounts to. All because I am afraid to try anything at which I might fail.

Wait...am I actually 35?

No. I'm not. But close enough.

You know, if we didn't have so many chemicals, we wouldn't need a shelf on which to store them. And if we didn't have a shelf, there would be less things to clean, and then we would need less cleaning chemicals. Dear god, cleaning is the most futile thing ever. 

It's like...cleaning is the start of a horrific cycle of unnecessary life complications. 

I mean, if I weren't cleaning I could be feeding orphans, or creating art right now. 

Oh shut up, you know you'd just be napping, Molly. Or eating cheese. 

We need to buy more cheese. Cheese is pretty much the only thing I have right now.

Ewww...what was that? It was furry. Or gooey. I can't tell which. I wonder if there's a word for that.

Dear lord, it fell on me!

I'm pretty sure no one has scrubbed this shelf in three years. Why should they, though? It's just going to get dirty again tomorrow. What's the point of cleaning? Everything you do is undone. Anything you ever do is undone. Life is just an endless pattern of doing and undoing. There is no point.

Nothing has a point.

I don't have a point.

Okay, whatever this is has to be a mix of at least three toxic chemicals. Nothing else would create a sludge of this color and substance.

I would have made a great comparative religions professor, though. I would have worn sweaters to work.

Lots of sweaters.

Wow. I probably shouldn't be touching this without gloves. It can't be safe.

I can feel my skin melting.

Yep. I'm gonna die.

This is how I go. A 35 (34?) year old woman, on the floor, doing what will only be undone tomorrow. Scrubbing what should never have existed to begin with. Silently enduring the futilities of life as her skin melts. (As her worth melts).

On the other hand, if I die, my family can collect life insurance, and then my life will have served a purpose after all.

Okay, life isn't totally futile.

Hey, maybe I should clean some things when I get home. Like really clean. Like, clean clean. Maybe there's something satisfying about the futility of this kind of physical labor. Maybe it's all really Zen and stuff.

But I don't even know if I have any cleaning solution. I'd probably need to get some more. But then I'd have to make space to store it.

And what would I start with? The only area in which I (now) have expertise is the cleaning of cleaning shelves. And if I bought a new cleaning shelf, it would already be clean. And I'm not going to want to do anything else, because I won't be good at it, and I don't do things unless I'm guaranteed to succeed. 

Wow, I'm such a frustrated perfectionist...if that's even a thing.

Yeah.

It's totally a thing.

So clearly, this is the last thing I'm cleaning today (or, ya know, ever). I cleaned, and I did a good job, and yay me, but I don't want to go overboard. I've had enough existential crisis for one day.

I'm just going to go home and take a nap and dream about cheese, and how great I would have looked in a professor sweater.