Cursed Tongue: Dirt Blindness

Posted by CursedTongue on April 6, 2006

For the first time, my husband and I have separate bathrooms. The other day I made the grievous mistake of walking into my husband’s bathroom. It looked like he had been bathing monkeys in his tub, which is funny, because we don’t have any monkeys.

When a bathroom gets to the zoo stage I feel compelled to immediately scrub and disinfect it, even though he’ll no more notice my efforts than he noticed that his tub had sprouted fur. I believe he is only one of millions of men who suffers from a devastating affliction I call Dirt Blindness.

Dirt Blindness is a serious disorder, usually affecting only men. Before you cry foul and curse me for being an insensitive, sexist, wildebeest harpy-creature, I will concede that there are Felix Ungers among the human male population of Earth. One of my friends married such a man. He has a mild form of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and his surroundings have to be clean and straightened. If, for example, there are multiple sets of Venetian blinds in a room, the bottom slats have to be even and all of the slats slanted at the same angle. Which is not to say that men need a neurological disorder to pass the white glove test, but it helps.

I contend that a man entering a mildly dirty room and a woman entering a mildly dirty room have different physiological responses. The man, generally speaking, will go about his business, because the dirt isn’t hurting anyone and the dust mites are probably even enjoying themselves.

The woman will almost immediately notice the dirt, and if it is in someone else’s home she will form harsh opinions about the sloppiness of the inhabitants, but if it is her own home, her blood pressure will rise in direct proportion to the foulness of the mess. She will feel obliged to clean the room, and will suffer intense guilt if she does not have the time or inclination to clean.

Being equal partners in a mature relationship, my husband and I both do household chores. There are few chores that are assigned. So, we engage in a game of domestic “chicken” in which the most grossed out party caves first and cleans. By the end of the week, the crust on the stove from pasta water that boiled over that attracted breadcrumbs and a barbeque sauce splotch taunts me every time I walk through the kitchen. Typically, I lose.

I’m certainly no Martha Stewart/Betty Crocker/Donna Reed genetically engineered domestic hybrid, but I am particular about how clean things have to be. My husband’s definition of clean is more relaxed then mine. After he cleans a room, I sometimes find myself touching up the work he’s already done. The smudge on the light switch and the blue mystery fuzz on the carpet don’t bother him the way they bother me.

Am I resentful and bitter that it’s probably been about a year since my husband has held a toilet brush? Yes. But, while I am begrudgingly scrubbing grout or decalcifying the espresso machine I have to remind myself that my husband makes other valuable household contributions. He does things like opening jars, getting Internet Explorer to work again, and making sure I get my Recommended Daily Allowance of chocolate.

I believe that we’ve achieved a pretty good balance. But that doesn’t keep me from absolutely loathing dish washing. At a young age, I remember whining about that particular chore, and my mother replying with, “Why do you think we had kids?” Which I think is precisely the ingredient missing from our household: slave labor.

- Sarah Letnes

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