The Chores: Am I Failing at Being an Adult?

While my friends were marching yesterday, I was wrestling with technology.  I tried to order new contact lenses with the new insurance and got into a snarl with the website that I couldn't solve.  My spouse was trying to create an online quiz for his class, but the software wouldn't let him enter the answers.  My computer started to freeze and unfreeze for no reason.

Some days, it's good to walk away.  That's what I did.

My spouse rebooted his computer, and then he was able to complete his making of the quiz.  This morning, the website let me complete my transactions--and I ended up being glad I didn't complete them yesterday, since this morning I discovered that I had entered some incorrect information about my prescription.

Yesterday, I pulled weeds, a long overdue task, and did some dusting and mopping of the floors, an even more overdue task.  As is usual when I do this, I thought about how much of our furniture is from an older age and not really compatible with my life or our current age. 

For example, our dining room table has lots of ornate carvings on the legs--lots of places for dust to gather.  I'd prefer straight lines.  The chairs are heavy--and the floor is becoming scratched because of them.  We have an end table that is holding a phone that only works sporadically and a lamp that doesn't really illuminate our work--what is the point?

But I try to resist hauling too much of my life to the curb in any given afternoon.  So, instead I loaded the car with a huge pile of stuff we'd been accumulating for months--it's going to the rummage sale at our church or Goodwill, I don't care which.

The cleaning was getting to me (lots of dust), so I went outside to weed.  How do these weeds take over our river rock beds in such a quick time?  Yank, yank, yank, over an hour and I'm still nowhere close to done--and it's a small yard!

I would like to tell you that I feel purged and cleansed, but I feel a bit of despair.  Why does it seem so hard to keep on top of these tasks (cleaning, sorting, getting rid of, keeping the weeds at bay) that others seem to master?

It is a comfort that most people I talk to feel this way--even the ones who have paid for help tell me that they feel my same sense of failing at being an adult.

But let me not focus on those feelings.  Let me remember the pictures from all of yesterday's marches.  Let me remember how happy they made me.  Let me remember times from this week where I chose to have a meal with friends, not stay at home to dust and weed.  I'd rather be successful in this area, even if it means that weeds make inroads and dust makes a home with me.