LAST SUMMER, a friend was visiting from Australia. Our plan was to meet at my place at noon, and then he showed up thirty minutes ahead of schedule. “You’re early. I need to tidy up, it’s a mess,” I lamented like some kind of 1950s fridge-magnet lady come to life. It wasn’t. Messy, that is. I just hadn’t had time to do a pre-company spit polish. And now here was my dear pal, standing in my kitchen, and I was spinning out over coffee rings. As we hugged, I surveyed the dishes in the sink from over his shoulder, the high chair caked with egg-something, the bowl on the butcher’s block overflowing with the flotsam and jetsam of everyday existence. I wasn’t embarrassed. It was more like a visceral discomfort, like this reunion I had been looking forward to was somehow diminished against an imperfect backdrop.

My friend was unfazed: “You live here, don’t you?” he said, shrug-smirking in a way that suggested maybe he hadn’t flown for almost twenty-four hours to spend time with quartz countertops. For him, it was a throwaway comment. My daughter barrelled in—a tornado of snot and sand and uncapped magic markers—and we got on with our day.

But for me, his words landed like a transgressive truth bomb, a much-needed reminder that chasing picture perfect in the domestic sphere is absurd. Like going to a barnyard and being disappointed by the smells. You live here—as in, this is a home, not an Architectural Digest photo shoot or house porn on social media. You live here—as in, meeting the needs of three people who eat and sleep and do laundry and leave toothpaste spray all over the bathroom vanity every day is a messy business. You live here—as in, life is precious and short and rare, and not one single person ever said on their deathbed, “I wish I had spent more time with my Swiffer.”

So why can’t I stop stress-cleaning?

It’s a serious question, if not one I ever thought I’d be asking myself. I am not a naturally tidy person. My brain tends toward the chaotic, and so does my T-shirt drawer. On vacation, I am the friend whose suitcase explodes over the shared room. But more and more, I have found myself tidying at home as a way to take the edge off. I don’t have a therapist. I do have a Shark Rocket Pro Cordless, my emotional support vacuum whose dulcet whoosh provokes a Pavlovian sense of calm. Maybe I can’t meet a work deadline, get my princess-obsessed daughter to wear pants, book a driver’s test, or watch the news without crying. But I can spend five minutes in a suction-induced fugue state, and it feels like letting the air out of an emotional-pressure headache.

I’m not alone here. A friend dealing with relationship issues recently mentioned her post-midnight rage........

© The Walrus