DOES IT REALLY MATTER???

         One of the things I’ve noticed about being a widow and living alone is an attitude of not really caring. Since it’s just me and the doggies here, does it really matter if I vacuum or dust? Sure, if I expect family or friends to visit; then, of course, I go through the motions of making the house more presentable. (Although, I have to admit I entertained family yesterday without pulling out the vacuum or wielding the dust cloth...for shame, for shame, for shame.) But, on a day to day basis, I don’t really give much of a shit…to be profane about it.

          When John was alive, I kept a clean and fairly normal house, but he’s no longer here; and why I did it when he was alive, I don’t really know. He didn’t much care how the house looked; and judging by the dust and dog hair in his bedroom, we could have easily lived like a couple of hoarders and it wouldn’t have mattered in the least to him. I think I’ve posted his opinion on my cleaning before company comes…what’s the point since the company is just going to mess it all up anyway.

          Then, there’s the living plants throughout the house. I’ve always had living plants in my home. At one point in time, there were plants in hangers I macraméd
in front of each and every window of this house. Now, the plants reside in the

bathroom, living, dining rooms and kitchen. I know family would rather I get rid of the ones in the bathroom so I wouldn’t have to climb a ladder to water. Some times I think about just giving them all away so I don’t have to care for them any longer. Then, I think about this house and how cold it would look without those living specimens.

          What I’m left wondering about at this point is whether my ceasing to care about the dust, dirt, dog hair and plants is an indication of depression? If that’s the case, why don’t I feel depressed? Believe me, I don’t really think I’m depressed and in need of some form of medication to make it all better.

          Growing up, my mother and father both worked; and once my grandma moved to California when I was 12, I became the main housekeeper. I didn’t have to do laundry or anything like that, but vacuuming, dusting and keeping things tidy was really up to me. I continued that when I moved into my own apartment, into the house John and I rented at the beginning of our marriage and then into this house. At one point in time…actually more than one point, more like years…you could have eaten your dinner, or any meal for that matter, off my floors. My windows sparkled spring and fall. And, I held either a permanent part-time job or a full-time job while raising children and keeping a clean and gleaming home. 

         

So, now, what’s my problem? I don’t honestly know except I don’t feel much like vacuuming most days. And, dusting, well, what’s the point when it just comes back before you even get to enjoy the dirt-free tables and knick-knacks. I probably wouldn't even do much laundry except for the fact my closet and dresser drawers are not bottomless. I feel like I should be ashamed of myself for not caring so much as a real whit…and what is a whit anyway…about how it all looks. Again, am I depressed or just relaxing after a lifetime of keeping things in order?

          I find myself wanting to do other things like sit at this computer and compose stuff for my blog, or read emails, or look at Facebook. I’d rather meet someone for lunch or dinner or go to a movie. I have a stack of papers and brochures I've saved that detail hikes and places and events I want to attend. With spring just around the corner, I'd rather be out mucking about in the dirt instead of cleaning it up.  

        

          This is a quandary for me. After 74 years of cleaning, polishing, laundering, and everything else it takes to keep house, why am I now feeling as though those things are time wasters, that I have so many other things I can do instead? Is it because I feel my time is becoming more limited with each passing day? Am I just lazy? I don’t have an answer for myself.

Is feeling like this part of the grieving process? Is feeling like this perfectly normal? Is it a phase that I’ll go through that will eventually end? Does anyone have any answers or insights to share with regard to how I’m feeling? I believe I could certainly benefit from counsel from other widows/widowers who have gone through this because right now, it rather sucks and I’d much prefer to feel way better than I do currently.