I Meant to Clean the House. I Wrote This Instead.

I Meant to Clean the House. I Wrote This Instead.

I woke up with
intentions. Big ones.
You know the kind — where you sit up in bed and decide, “This is the day I stop living in filth and chaos. This is the day I become the woman TikTok thinks I am.”

The laundry piles were threatening structural integrity, we were out of forks again, and the floor was crunchier than my toddler’s snack cup. I even lit one of those knockoff lemon candles that smells more like Pine-Sol than citrus — because scent, apparently, is how I trick my brain into thinking productivity is happening.

I had a plan. A real one.
And then I sat down to “get organized.” Which, in this house, is code for opening my laptop and spiraling into a hyperfocused black hole of productivity... on everything except what I meant to do.

I figured I’d just “write a little something real quick” to get my brain going before I tackled the dishes.
Four hours later, the dishes are still playing Jenga in the sink and I’m knee-deep in metaphors about procrastination.

The wildest part? I feel productive. I’m typing. I'm not scrolling or binge-watching crime documentaries while stress-eating cereal. I’m working. Just... not on what I planned.

Apparently, this has a name. Productive procrastination. It’s when your brain decides to avoid one task by aggressively tackling something else that feels useful.
I know this because one time I looked it up instead of folding laundry.
I also downloaded a book on it — didn’t finish, but I did reorganize the apps on my phone into color-coded folders, so that’s something.

It’s a cycle.
I’ve made fancy chore charts. I’ve printed Pinterest-worthy schedules. I’ve watched “Clean with Me” videos while lying face-down in a pile of clean clothes that have been “airing out” on the couch for six days.

Once, I deep-cleaned the microwave instead of unloading the dishwasher because it “seemed faster.” That lie lives rent-free in my head.

Sometimes I try to trick myself into starting. I’ll set a ten-minute timer and say, “Just do something.”
Nine minutes in, I’m still arguing with myself about which something is the right something.

Other times, I slap on a true crime podcast and pretend I'm solving a murder while bleaching the toilet. Adds drama. Makes it feel noble.

And when things get really dire? I invite someone over.
Suddenly, I can clean a whole living room in twenty minutes fueled entirely by shame and panic.

But today? No guests. No timer. Just me, the crunchy floor, and this blog post.
The house still looks like a "before" picture. But this post? She’s done.

That counts, right?

I’ll clean tomorrow.
Or after lunch.
Or right after I check whether vinegar and baking soda can fix my life.

(Maybe if I sprinkle some on the floor and whisper affirmations...)