Chores

Tuesday: Laundry

Wednesday: Round up the trash and recycling

Thursday: Take the trash cans to the curb

Friday: More laundry, bring the trash cans back inside

Saturday: Water the indoor plants

Sunday and Monday: What did I miss? Who fed the cat?

Every other day throughout the week: Water the outdoor plants and garden

Repeat.

The word "chore" sounds a lot like it feels to do them. A little like "choke." A little like "bore." The things that need to be done. There is some adventure in making meals and cleaning up the kitchen. Sometimes these things happen because I have a roommate. Sometimes they don't. This element of surprise keeps things interesting. Less like the chores I mentioned above. 

When I was a kid, chores were assigned to me. The really cool top tier things like mowing the lawn went to my older brother. I was relegated to picking up after the dog in our back yard. Only after my older brother went on to high school did I ascend to mowing, leaving that highly skilled operation of grass cutting technology to me. My younger brother was left with the shovel. Little did I know that there were tasks like vacuuming and kitchen prep that were still beyond my pay grade. Dusting? I'd heard of such an activity, but was never fully cognizant of what it might entail. When I encountered dust on an object, my reaction was to do my best to blow it off. Literally and figuratively. 

Every so often there were ritualistic jobs like washing a car or two, and certainly shoveling snow was a part of growing up in the foothills of Colorado. Cleaning my own room was simple enough if I never let it descend too far into chaos. But mostly chores provided an effective means of marking the passage of time. If it's Friday, the trash gets picked up. If it's Tuesday, this must be Belgium. 

Chores are a way of testing us to see if we're still alive.