Everyone enjoys a clean kitchen—it makes life easier. Ironically, mostly everyone hates to keep it this way. Whether it be too time consuming or just too much of a hassle, the requirements for this sanitary procedure seem overwhelming for people. The floor quickly becomes caked with crumbs, the fridge gets over-occupied with food from months ago, and trash is erupting out of the bag like lava from a volcano. But the most horrifying site exists in the sink—dirty dishes. They are enough to drive a person insane, particularly me.
Since I was a little girl I have enjoyed cleaning. My friends and family joke with me about it, seeing as it isn’t exactly normal to take pleasure in eliminating filth. Yet I’ve continued this
“unusual” behavior with no frustration or worry, until two years ago.
Moving into my own apartment was very exciting for my roommate and me, although it came with much responsibility. She is a tidy person, and I never thought my concern with cleanliness would interfere with my daily routine. But I was wrong. I find myself glancing in the sink every time I set foot in the kitchen, just to make sure there are no dishes in the sink. I know I should be more patient—after all, they’re just dishes sitting there…dishes which irk me. If I notice a bowl, cup, or even spoon, I quickly place it into the dishwasher—that is where it belongs. Even if there is a used pot or pan, I scrub it spotless without hesitation. Many times these dishes are not even mine, but it makes no difference, they are still in my sight.
“What dishes? Oh, those dirty ones…don’t worry; I’ll take care of them tomorrow.”
Usually tomorrow turns into a week as I anxiously monitor the dishes, praying a stench hasn’t yet emerged. I cannot wait another second for them to get any dirtier, and I immediately wash them to calm my frustration. I never mention anything to her about the time delay between her use of dishes and when they finally reach the dishwasher; I’m fully aware it sounds very petty and meticulous. So I take matters into my own hands while steam releases from my ears. My roommate is wonderful, but her dirty dishes never fail to get the best of me.
Even my own family knows of my dirty dish obsession, and tends to use it to their advantage. Whenever I visit home, my mom is excited for two reasons: she gets to see her daughter, and she doesn’t have to worry about one dish. Sadly, she is right. I find her purposely leaving plates and even cooking pots in the sink, as if it were a gift for me to stumble upon.
“Good to have you home, Amanda! The dishcloths are still in the same drawer.”
It’s as if my annoyance has caused her vast relief. Who wouldn’t want someone else to deal with the mess? For once I’d like to not be that someone. But of course, to ease my nerves, I tend to the scene of grease and grime. I do not consider myself OCD over this matter. I know where to place my dirty dishes, but it is others who worry me. What I once enjoyed has now become a mere necessity for survival. After all, we can’t go on without clean forks.
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