Cleaning
the bathroom. There’s something soul shriving about it, isn’t there?
And,
conversely, there’s something really icky about a bathroom that isn’t clean.
Maybe it’s an atavistic abhorrence of the danger of microbes. Maybe it’s
unremembered but internalized potty-training cheers and jeers. Maybe it’s the
undercurrent of unpleasant smells (leading us back to possibilities one and
two).
Whatever
the reasons for a dislike of less-than-sparkling bathrooms, the dislike is one
shared by many. Witness the proliferation of scent sprayers in public
bathrooms. Why the owners of, say, a pancake restaurant would think that a
chemical imitation of citrus scent will hide the grungy corners is beyond me.
And yet, the effort is made a distressing number of times.
(This
reminds me of my intense dislike of scented cat litter, but that’s another
story. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s the same story.)
When
I was very young, I longed to feel sanctified and new after Confession.
Instead, I always had the nagging suspicion that I had forgotten something and
thus, Sister Nicola assured me, condemned my soul to everlasting torment; or I feared that my Good Act of Contrition wasn’t Good enough.
I
acknowledge that going to Confession was never meant to be spiritual Zoloft.
But I longed for that ebullient dance of salvation. Then I got my own
bathroom and discovered the incredible lightness of cleaning.
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