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I Hate Washing Up

If ditching chores makes me less of a woman, then so be it.

By Clare FreemanPublished 6 years ago 3 min read
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It just never ends. Please. Make it stop.

Below is an excerpt of a sober Saturday whinge from a sad, single slob...

I hate washing up even more than a hangover because at least that disappears after an Alka-Seltzer, a coffee, and a fry up. All of which — by the way — contribute to making washing up even worse.

No longer can I come home to a flat share where a) a nice domesticated housemate has done the washing up for me but thus inducing guilt that I must repay them in some way, or b) a nice but lazy housemate has thrown the dishes in the bin therefore removing the issue permanently.

Instead, for now — I live alone. Therefore, both of those options do not apply. I’ve tried various alternatives such as eating out, eating all meals in a large cup/bowl, starving, cup-a-soups, and microwave meals. But these are a) expensive, or b) leave me a very hungry bear.

I've eaten from saucepans, used paper plates, and survived on pot noodles for weeks. But as a 30-something-year-old woman, I feel perhaps this isn't very sustainable when one wishes to socialise with other, proper, grown-up human beings.

I feel there is nothing worse than the empty stare of a few cups and a dirty pan. And even after you finally give in and wash them up, after the next meal they’re back — staring, looking at you with the need and vulnerability of a helpless child: “But I can’t wash myself up. Help me... Please, miss...”

It never ends. Washing up will always be there to haunt me.

However, I know I am not alone. For I thank god for people like Caitlin Moran. Her book, How To Be A Woman, smashes this ideal of a 1950s housewife vs the feminist. It’s nice to know that other ladies argue with themselves about being "the perfect domesticated woman" whilst at the same time thinking "stuff it, I can’t be arsed."

I mean for god's sake, I own an ironing board which is strategically placed in my hallway to imply to a possible new "mate" that I might actually be that perfect domesticated woman they are yearning for. When in fact, upon further investigation into my cupboards, there is no iron in my flat and I have not ironed since the 20th century. (Additional note: I have not bought any clothing which requires any form of straightening since 1999. Lycra and Polyester are simply magnificent.)

So one day, whilst facing domestic goddess frustration, smashing pots and pans into pointless piles across my work surfaces, I thought it best to do what any other self-deprecating journalist would — create a blog for "normal women" to prove that I am not alone in my disgust at doing house chores.

But after several attempts, instead I thought that might just be a way of avoiding the fact that another whinging post will not wash up for me. And that may be for once — I should just stop messing around and get on with it.

So here goes. Pink fluffy gloves on, ladybird scourer at the ready, radio volume up, give the lavender fairy liquid a squeeze or two... Balls, I've forgot to turn the bloody hot water on. Sod it. (Orders a pizza on speed dial.)

One Year On Update: I have recently moved to a new flat share where I now have aquired a housemate who absolutely adores washing up. They even have special gloves for such occasion. On weeks where they're not about, there is also a dishwasher installed. I am for the first time in life truly free. May the 21st Century non-washing up woman finally live long and prosper.

gender roles
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About the Creator

Clare Freeman

Presenter. Podcaster. Storyteller.

Helping ordinary people tell their incredible stories.

ASFBProductions.com @ClareFreeman_

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