This frustration is furthered by the fact that to clean the shower, I have to get in the shower and take a shower. Taking showers is not necessarily a bad thing, but I hate sweating while I am doing so. There is something inherently wrong with this.
In our previous house, a 100 year old Victorian that I still miss with a passion, we had only one bathroom with an old fashioned bathtub/shower combination. It took all of 10 minutes to get that shower clean, and I could easily accomplish a sparkling bathroom at least once a week.
But then, seduced by modern conveniences like more than one electrical outlet per room, we gave up on our Victorian doll and acquired this house. This house has 3 1/2 baths. I only clean 1 1/2 of them. The other two are the domain of my children, and they are responsible for their cleanliness. In fact, I don't clean their rooms either, which explains why I never enter them, and make sure that the doors are closed at all times.
Anyway, in my frustration with my dirty shower, I have been looking around for someone or something to blame, and have stumbled upon the greatest idea of all time.
It's Steve's fault.
Now, before you find the holes in this thinking, please be aware of the fact that in almost 29 years of marriage, Steve has never cleaned a bathroom. Sure, he cooks and does laundry. He never shied away from giving the kids a bath or changing diapers. He does all of the car maintenance, outdoor work and will fix just about any broken appliance, computer or sticky drawer in our domicile. He is a wizard with the vacuum, and does the weekly grocery shopping despite the constant complaint of our offspring that "there's no FOOD in this house."
In short, Steve is a pretty damn good wife. I am lucky to have him. But, in casting around to assess blame for the moldy shower doors, he was an easy target.
So I made a decision. I would stop cleaning the shower. In the spirit of oppressed workers everywhere, I would stage a strike. My goal? To ensure that he would eventually get tired of the mold and water stains, and do it himself. He would, hopefully, do a better job than me. Thus, the problem would be solved.
I made this mature decision based upon the wisdom 51 years of life have given me. I took into account my Catholic school upbringing, my Montessori training, years of therapy and my belief that conflicts are best solved through communication and collaboration. I also took into account the fact that not cleaning the shower would give me an extra hour or so for napping on Saturday afternoons. I felt I could not lose.
Three weeks in, it occurred to me that my strategy was flawed. The shower was no closer to being clean, and Steve had not evidenced one iota of awareness that I was on strike. Or perhaps he had, and had chosen to ignore it.
So yesterday, I decided to confront the elephant in the room head-on.
"You know, I have stopped cleaning the shower," I said to him as we were brushing our teeth.
"I've noticed," he replied.
"It's just that it's so hard to get it clean. I have to scrub the stains and I get all sweaty when I'm doing it. I hate cleaning the shower. I was thinking that, after all this time, you have NEVER cleaned a bathroom."
I felt a rant coming on having to do with the unfairness of being the only partner who gives a shit about the cleanliness of the shower. I could actually feel my blood pressure starting to rise and I was aching for a fight.
I looked at his face. When I am in such a mood, Steve has a habit of remaining calm and dispassionate. He wisely waits for the storm to pass. This may be why we are such a good pair.
"Do you want me to clean the shower?"
As I was considering my reply, I suddenly thought of our years together - years of indulging me, listening to me, supporting me, cheering for me. And, with that, I came to a decision.
"No, I'll take care of it."
