GUILTY!

I’m guilty. I admit it. I’m 30 pounds overweight and I know I should exercise. That means I need to join a fitness center. I dig through my purse for my checkbook. "Wow!" My budget doesn’t really allow for the extra expense. I dig deeper and pull out my credit card. "Oh, no!" The balance is already too high. But I need to loose this weight. So I play the game: “Should I or shouldn’t I…”

In a moment of weakness I think, “Oh, well….” and grab my car keys. I’m going to do it. I’ll feel so much better if I lose these extra pounds. After all, they say I should take care of myself so I can take care of my family.

The door swings shut hiding my messy house. Now it’s behind closed doors and I don’t have to look at the laundry or the dirty dishes that haven’t found their way to the kitchen. I know the carpets are smothering beneath the newspapers and scattered books, clothes, and discarded toys. "Oh, well, out of sight out of mind!"

Quickly I hop into my car and jam the keys into the ignition. My Better Judgment knocks loudly on my conscience, but I‘m determined not to hear it.

“This is not a good idea!” It cries. “You can’t afford it! Credit spends money before you earn it.”

“Don’t listen!” My Reckless Side says. “You need to do this!”

But the knocking grows louder, I can’t ignore it. My Inner Prosecutor rises up and points a finger. “You,” it cries, “have just left a mess in your house.”

“I know, I know. But I’ll be back.”

It continues, “Then you’ll be too tired from your workout and it will be time to start dinner and afterwards you’ll make excuses to put it off until tomorrow.”

I turn off the ignition. Rethinking my decision. The truth is, my priorities are out of order. If I go to the gym instead of taking care of my home, I am neglecting my responsibilities and my family. Plus, if I buy on credit, I would be stealing from the people I already owe.

I’m overweight, overreacting, and overspending. I need a plan. One that will not put me further into debt or add another activity to my busy schedule. It needs to be simple enough for me to work and practical enough to give me the incentive to stick with it.

Back to the house. The wilted plant by the door begs for a drink as I brush past. “Yeah, yeah, it’s up to me to take care of everybody.” I grumble.

I start in the bedroom that has the least amount of work. Maybe that will encourage me. My foot shoves the overflow back into the closet and I slam the door after it. Roughly, I close the drawers and clear the dresser tops. My actions mimic a child’s tantrum. "Housework, I hate it. It’s never done and I’m expected to do it all."

I shake the pillows and flip the covers into place. “Life is not fair.” I do a set of squats to retrieve items from the floor and gather the lost socks hiding under the bed. “Why do I have to clean up after everyone else?” Biceps curl as I grab the pile of dirty clothes from the chair and dump it into the empty hamper. I head for the door with a backward glance. “Humph.” But I must admit it only took a few minutes and the room does look better.

I head down the stairs and do high impact stepping back up for another overflowing hamper. A few more trips like this and my cardiovascular work out will be done.

At least I have help from my Maytag Maid, who will take over from here. When she’s done I’ll hang the wash on the line to dry. That does lower the electric bill and gives me an advanced isotonic workout of bending, lifting and stretching.

Onward throughout the house…straightening, fetching, and carrying. As I move from room to room I think about the circuit training the fitness center offers.

As the floor begins to peek through the clutter I realize we have way too much ‘stuff’ and I have no place to put it. I avoid the kitchen where the oven and refrigerator need some serious attention. Good thing the pantry has a door to hide behind, it hasn’t been sorted in years.

I stretch upwards to dust the door mantle then bend low to reach the bottom book shelves. My weight leans forward onto one foot and then rocks back onto the other as the vacuum glides across the carpet. Push-out and pull-back, throughout the rooms my muscles work against the push-pull aerobic movement.

The grand finale of cleaning is the sweeping and mopping. Side to side, back and forth, I feel my waistline resisting the repetition of twisting and turning.

A few hours of walking, bending, squatting, stretching, fetching and carrying and my house is looking good. Maybe next week I’ll do the windows standing straight and tall and use the ‘wipe on, wipe off’ move.

The silence of the washer tells me Miss Maytag has finished her task. But since the floors are still damp, my Housewife’s-Union (tee-hee) allows me the right for a mid-session break. I grab my puzzle book and a glass of OJ to replace lost electrolytes and head for the recliner for a cool down. "A break with no interruptions! Yes!"

I survey the reasonably clean rooms. A couple more workout sessions and if I haul a few boxes off to the thrift shops, I should have control of my house. I smile at the thought of my husband’s surprise when he comes thru the door.

As I review the day. I feel good. Instead of fighting the traffic and spending money on gas, a gym membership, and a high calorie snack (oops!) on the way home, followed by a mad dash to throw dinner into the microwave; I did what was right and upheld my end of the marriage. I’ve exercised, made my house presentable, and boosted my self-esteem with an achievement.

Actually, there are a lot of bennies for being a homemaker. Here, I am "boss". I have the freedom to set my own schedule. I have the power to make decisions for what is best for my family. I have opportunities to develop my nesting and creative skills and grow in my confidence and personal bent as I furnish and decorate my house to make it a home.

So why shouldn’t I do the best I can and be proud of who I am? Why do I let the world demean my role as a woman?