There's a domestic crisis at home of significant magnitude. I haven't quite got to the bottom of the situation, but we're out of dishwasher tablets. There are a number of issues up for discussion here, least of all the notion of being caught in your own home with a pair of slightly too tight pink marigolds on. But dishwasher? I know, my dad was the same. Work of the devil. Even when he finally succumbed, as all men will eventually do and brush aside their moral and domestic ideals with that first inhalation of freshly steamed best IKEA china as the door opens signalling a change in your life that you'll never look back on, my dad would still insist that anything put into our new dishwasher must first be rinsed, and rinsed again.
After all, it's only a machine! I guess if I were a machine, I'd continue to reach deep in to the cupboard without concern or emotion that my cup is about to runneth dry until the cupboard was bare. No need to worry about the lack of my favourite mug, or the special big mug, they've long gone. Next it's on to the guest mugs - 3 of a set of 4 that kind of match, then mugs with chips and cracks. After that, you need to really extend your arm in to reach the emergency mugs, the comedy Christmas mugs and so on. Other receptacles are considered...anything but washing up. Repeat this scenario with plates, bowls and cuttlery...and the kitchen is a mess. We have lowered our standards, readjusted perceptions of what is acceptable and dug deep. Life is finely balanced. It takes little to upset it.
And of running, well...I've started doing a bit more. I don't know why or the reason behind it, other than a feeling it must be good for me. Run and a circuits class on Monday, a run and Pilates yesterday, run tonight...and so on. And it's muddy out there. Which brings me seamlessly on to the subject of those washing machine 'things' (those little sacks/bags of detergent that you strategically position in the load of washing, convinced that when 'you' do it, you somehow know that where you place it will make a difference to the outcome), in the box next to the dishwasher tablets. It's clear that there is imbalance here also. Despite the fact that some of my activity takes place in the dark, I have now reached new depths at the back of my 'running draw'.
I'm pulling out gear I've not seen for years and wouldn't be seen dead in. Like mugs, I'm running out of running gear, yet unlike mugs where I'd drink out of anything, I'm having to be objective and considered about what I'm prepared to wear out on the street. The draw is far from empty. My 'reward' shorts and lucky shorts, the vests and tops that don't make my nips bleed, my favourite hat that makes me look hard, those special gloves with a thing to put your key in, my special socks that don't get lost in my shoes, pants that don't get lost in my arse, all my favourite stuff... in the wash. And this is it. I'm stood there, looking at a draw of perfectly usable clothes, yet muttering that I've nothing to wear. Double standards. Think I need to wash up!
