I remember hearing about Sisyphus in high school (one of those times I went). I remember thinking how truly awful it would have been to push a rock up a hill every day just to watch it fall back down.
Sisyphus has nothing on me. If he was a she and if she pushed a pile of laundry up the stairs every day just to find another pile waiting for her the next day, then I’d feel something for her (I say something, because I’m not sure what I feel inside my cold dead heart anymore).
We’ve been trying to get our house ready to rent. It sucks. I decided that I totally could keep my house clean all of the time- just as long as I never quit cleaning. Never. Not to bathe the children, to feed them, to play with them (hahahaa, like I do any of that anyways). Or myself. If I just kept pushing, it’d be clean. For a minute. Then I’d wake up in the morning and find an other pile of laundry waiting for me. The same walls to scrub (that’s a lie. I don’t scrub walls). Another two or three pans of mac n’ cheese that need to be washed.
What was the moral of that myth? Wait, there wasn’t a moral to that part. That was his punishment.
Sure, you could say that there’s a more good that I’m doing when I clean than he was when he was pushing the boulder up the hill. Camus had a lot to say about it, too. I started to read it but then saw something shiny out the window…and well… But I hate cleaning. I find no personal meaning in it and satisfaction only comes when it’s actually clean. Which it almost NEVER is. Did you see the pictures in my craigslist listing? Didn’t it look awesome? Yeah. I had to clean ONE ROOM at a time. Take a picture. Then start on the next room while my kids trashed the one I just cleaned. Seriously.
The difference between me and Sisyphus (other than his awesome name and my not so awesome name (really, what person named “lexi” do you know that isn’t under the age of 12?)) is that I sort of have a choice. Sort of. And if you come over to my house, you’ll see the choice I’ve made.