I cleaned two toilets today. Bowls and all.
I’ve always been afraid of toilets. For as long as I can remember, if I flush one at night, I run in terror back to bed. I just know my soul’s in danger.
It’s really only been in the recent years that I’ve been petrified of all things associated with toilets: germs… fecel matter… skin cells… urine… toilet water… even that little silver flusher. Er, especially that little silver fusher. It’s gotten pretty out of hand. But I did develop a useful skill: I can pee standing up. It’s indispensible in some public restrooms, and a good upper thigh workout.
Today I looked my mysophobia–my scatophobia–my molysomophobia–my panthophobia– all of ’em–straight in the eye, and I said, “Mysophobia! Scatophobia! Molysomophobia! Pan-whatever-phobia! You’ve been ruling my life for too long.”
And I donned my cleaning clothes, gloves, Super Sponges, doused the bathrooms in bleach and went at ’em. And boy are they shiny.
Then I showered and put the clothes I was wearing in a plastic bag. They’ll go out with the trash this Thursday.