Or, In Which Smokey the Magnificent Vows to Wear The Same Organic Hemp Sack All Year While Eating Nothing but Crockpotted Leftovers Bulk-Cooked From Homegrown Heirloom Beets, For the Purpose of Protesting the Cruelties and Injustices Visited Upon Orphaned Infant Weasels by Big Pharma.
Self-imposed challenges. I love ‘em. Show me a blogger who has given up the colour blue for Lent or written an entire fantasy trilogy without using the letter M, and I’ll be a fan for life. There’s something so delightfully childish yet earnest, privileged yet well-intentioned and generally playing-at-real-lifeish about grown humans deliberately making the process of living more difficult for a cause, the pursuit of personal growth or just the heck of it. And as a chronically disorganised housewife, I have fallen back on self-imposed challenges more times than I can count in the hopes of ever unearthing the kitchen floor. A few weeks ago my meal plan included only Spanish food; the week before that, Italian. (We did have a brief stab at Irish in honour of St Patrick’s Day, but after eating Irish stew the first night and futilely bandicooting for potatoes the second, we Googled, said ‘Um’ and gave up). Another memorable week, we ate only foods beginning with B, E and F.
It’s not just cooking, either. My freelance writing career, such as it is, is based on a continual round of “200 more words and you get to go on xkcd”. My cleaning attempts are universally preceded by setting the kitchen timer and end with a celebratory square of chocolate. The only reason I read to my baby at all this week was for the joy of ticking it off on my spreadsheet. And when my husband innocently asked me to vacuum under the spare bed for the sake of his hayfever, I blinked Shylock-fashion and muttered something along the lines of “I cannot find it; it is not in the bond”.
One might ask, why not just join FlyLady and save time on making up lists and mind-games instead of doing actual housework?
One would be answered: Have you the brain worms?! Making the lists is the only thing that stops me pawning the baby and moving to the Middle Ages to become a monk. (A long-cherished dream of mine, incidentally. Flattering brown habits, illuminating manuscripts in a well-locked tower in the morning, a bit of plainchant after lunch to get the old humours flowing and then a leisurely afternoon apothecarying in the herb garden with a mortar and pestle.)
So in the spirit of erratic bunny-hops towards perfection, the cyclical pursuit and abandonment of Balance, and occasional domestic competence alternating with a mind fixed on Higher Things… I bid thee welcome.