I was born to do nothing

I am taking lounging to a new level. I am having August off so all day long I do nothing and then go to sleep. And I love it. I am thinking I should make a career out of it, I am really really good at it, but for the life of me, how?

Till I figure this out I’ll keep calm and carry on. With doing nothing. Ok, doing nothing doesn’t mean I am contemplating the walls, absolutely not. I am a woman of many hobbies, two to be more precise, which are reading and writing. Working on my novel and reading ferociously is all I do. Reviving my blogs is on my list as well, since I have time in my hands and plenty of inspiration.

Other than reading and writing? Well, last week I had a friend from Toronto visiting, then this Monday I took a stroll in Central London and spent way too much money on Oxford Street on things I don’t actually need. To quote my sister: ‘Walking is dangerous’.

Today I did something extreme. I did laundry by hand! Just like my ancestors, the cavewomen (I suppose the cavemen were way too macho to do laundry). In fact, I don’t have to go that far in the history of men. I did laundry by hand just like my mother used to do, as washing machines were not a thing until late in my childhood and neither were diapers, if you want to know. So probably women in my mother’s generation spent half their lives doing laundry. Now I understand why, back in my day, getting a stain on our clothes when playing was such a tragedy.

Anyway, I had some delicate things to wash (five dresses, two cardigans and a top) so I did it in the bathroom’s sink, with cold water, using shower gel as a detergent and hanging them in the shower cabin to drain so that I don’t flood my living-room. It took me about an hour and now my hands and my back are sore. I am not sure I washed them properly, probably not, but I am very proud of myself. I am looking at them as we speak, drying in the sun, while my living room smells like shower gel and burnt chicken (I also cooked today).

Now I am resting my poor back while applying cream on my hands every ten minutes, hoping they’ll forget the trauma. Later this evening I might clean the bathroom and the kitchen, because my sister is coming back tomorrow from her holiday and I don’t want her say: ‘You can tell I wasn’t home for a week, this place is a dump’. Well, she will say it anyway, but at least she will only be partially right.

And I am thinking of my grandmother, the one that buried three husbands, how she used to put a huge wash-hand basin outside in the yard, and wash by hand piles and piles of clothing and bedding and towels, using soap she was making herself in the same yard, every spring, out of the fat of the pig sacrificed on Christmas. The laundry was always spotless and if more neighbours were doing laundry in the same day, the whole street would have that particular smell, of fresh laundry drying in the sun, smell I have never felt since then.

Once the laundry was dry she was ironing everything, and by everything I mean even bedding and kitchen towels and socks and underwear, with a very old iron, so heavy I could barely pick it up. And she had time to go to work, to cook delicious meals from scratch, to take care of her garden and of her chickens and of her pig and to find and bury three husbands. How did she have time for all of it, I wonder. Maybe because she was never lounging, like yours truly does every day?



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