When I was a child, doing dishes was the worst form of torture I could ever imagine. We didn’t have a dishwasher so dishes were all done by hand and we all took turns washing and drying to make the arduous chore seem more fair. But it was my least favorite thing to do. I would have much preferred vacuuming, dusting, cleaning the bathroom, dry-walling, rotating and balancing tires or removing my own spleen….anything instead of washing those bloody dishes.
I don’t recall if the genius idea came to me in a dream or if I had a sudden flash of brilliance after one particular dinner but, once the meal had been consumed, I announced loudly that I had to go to the bathroom. No parent can effectually deny a child the right to heed the call of nature, so off I went.
Once that bathroom door had closed and I had engaged the lock, I became a teenage version of a forensic pathologist. I carefully opened each cupboard and slowly took stock of its contents. In essence, I took so much time doing absolutely nothing that by the time I unlocked the door and went back to the kitchen, the dishes were done and nobody had seemed to notice the length of my absence. The plan was brilliant….until eventually my brother caught on to my shrewd strategy.
After his realization of my great scheme, my trips to the bathroom after dinner were much less regular (pun intended). The guy that I looked up to, that I thought would battle to the death for me, had thrown me under the bus. I could only try to tune out the sound of his laughter as he closed the bathroom door before I even got close to the portal that would separate me from the dishes. Perhaps I should have changed my strategy and just gone to the bathroom right in my chair. That surely would have resulted in a swift and heady dismissal from the dinner table and a one-way ticket straight to my room!
As fate would have it, I don’t hate doing the dishes anymore. I learned a very valuable lesson about cleaning as I cook so the pile of dishes at the end of the process is not larger than the house itself. It is a rare day you will find dirty dishes in a pile in my sink. But if you do, call the local Crime Scene Investigators because I’ve probably discovered some evidence of foul play in my bathroom!