I don't like house cleaning, but I like having cleaned house. That's the dilemma with which I've been wrestling for much of Presidents' Day weekend.
Guests are due to arrive today, which necessitates enhanced spic-and-spanness for home, squalid home. So, I briefly became a dervish of dusting, scrubbing, vacuuming, rinsing, buffing, straightening, stowing, and pitching.
Those dust bunnies clinging to far, high corners? Succumb to the wave of my (Hoover) wand! That square of floor under the fridge? See the light of day and feel my broom's cleansing wrath! The three pendant lamps hanging above the kitchen? Lovingly polished for the first time in years -- once I ninjaed my way onto the counter to bring them within arm's reach; that same counter then given its own polishing to erase each tell-tale footprint.
The words of John Keats come to mind: "A thing of beauty is a joy forever." His statement turns out to be a half truth. It sweeps under the proverbial rug what feels to me like joy-sucking effort needed to make things fleetingly clean.