Winter brings retreat, behind thick curtains, beneath spun wool, into the recesses of the mind. ‘Tis the season of déjà vu. We reflect upon what we said and should have said, what we did and what we will do next year.
But spring into summer is time for action. In that slim window between energizing and exhausting, the sun’s return spurs us to battle. Suddenly the cat hairs that nestled comfortably on that throw blanket all winter long have simply got to go. The throw blanket itself needs to be banished, while we are at it, sent to dark confines to await the call to arms. And why has nobody ever pointed out just how dusty these walls are?
In that crazy time between too cold and too hot, too dark and too bright, we set aside our coveted careers, we forget our fancy degrees, and like sod-busting women futilely sweeping the dust from the dirt floor of a sod hut, we submit to the deeply recessive cleaning gene. Our inner hausfrau will not be denied.