On Saturday I found myself home alone, bleeding from my vagina and without transport or money to make myself feel better. The first day of my period is always really bad, so I self medicate. My gynecologist advises that I use cannabis oil – that shit is not cheap. So instead I call a guy who sells nice things and I just inhale and exhale and enjoy the effects ‘it’ has on my protesting womb. Same thing, different application tool.
Every 10 years or so, I decide to do a really deep clean of my house or room or cupboard (depending on how bored I am). I am not really one of those people who enjoy cleaning. I say this because I believe that there are people in the world who take great pleasure in cleaning and enjoy clean things. I’m perfectly happy to eat out of a dirty bowl with yesterday’s yoghurt crusts on the sides. I really could not care less. As long as it is my dirt and I know where it came from, I’m happy.
So deciding to clean the house is huge for me. My partner and I fight often over how seldom I wash the dishes. Somehow I manage to get out of it, every time. Cleaning must be incentivised! Either there needs to be really good music playing, really good food being made for me, people coming over who might judge me and my messy life or I literally have absolutely nothing else to do.
It just so happens that I have a beautiful pair of burgundy, suede heels that I bought in London many years ago when I thought adulthood would make me instantly wealthy. This was incentive enough. I never wear heels and even though I have them, I would never wear them in public. I’m like a baby giraffe – I can stand elegantly and pose for days, but as soon as I need to walk, the floor is my resting place and the journey there is not pretty at all.
So for reasons only known to the deepest, darkest part of my crazy mind, I keep my heels for cleaning. Sometimes I’ll wear underwear that was originally designed by men to make women stand still or lie still (because moving in these things is impossible). Other times I’ll wear nothing. Because I was bleeding from my vag, and no one was home, I decided to clean nude except for gloves and burgundy suede heels.
I cleaned the bathroom and the oven. It took me half a day. I spent most of that time curled up against myself swearing at the entity that gave me a womb and ovaries. a full hour of that time was spent taking the picture for this blog ( I still did not manage to get what I actually wanted, somehow my vagina and boobs were just everywhere). The last portion of the time was spent laughing into my cellphone over WhatsApp voice note while I described what I was doing to my best friend. My afternoon is her morning, so she was still in bed recovering from Friday night’s shenanigans – something about throwing away some guys underwear and attempting to get up and eat cake for breakfast, or maybe I was eating cake. Who knows!
She makes everything better and tells me without hesitation that I am ridiculous and amazing. She is my go-to for bragging about cleaning. Both of us enjoy mess. I understand her cupboards because they look like mine – a heap of things thrown into a general area known as t-shirts or socks. No judgment only encouragement. I could send her a picture of what I call clean and others might still call a heap, and she would be proud of me because she knows the destruction that once resided therein.
When I was finally finished cleaning, I felt like I had climbed Kilimanjaro. My calves ached, the soles of my feet burned and somehow I was out of breath. I was deeply satisfied with my achievement for the day. I cleaned and exercised and basically, I did adult things whilst bleeding and in heels. Does one not I deserve a medal for these types of feats?
I really do hate cleaning, but there is something quite spectacular about standing on the edge of a bath, reaching high up above your head towards the shower head, balancing in a pair of your most beautiful and expensive heels and hoping that you don’t fall because falling could mean breaking every bone you have, dragging your naked, dislocated self to the phone and calling someone for help. This is about as exciting a pair of heels and handyandy could get.