My wife is visiting family in Monterrey for the holidays.
We have a typical relationship in that she's the one who likes to keep things in the apartment neat and orderly, and I have a slovenly side. So I was looking forward to relaxing on the military efficiency that normally governs our cleaning schedule. I never let the kitchen get out of hand -- food odours have always disgusted me. A newspaper on the sofa, however, does not drive me crazy. Where my backpack and shoes land after coming home is up to fate. Making the bed is not now, nor will it ever be, a priority.
In short, I approached the visit with a slice of sophomoric anticipation: of course I would miss her, but I was looking forward to having the apartment to myself for a few days.
It's been what, four days since she departed. Two of those days I spent with my family celebrating Christmas Eve and the Big Day itself. I've been home a total of 24 hours since her plane departed, 16 of those sleeping. Damned if I don't miss her markedly, already. And embarrassingly, the apartment has also managed to become a disaster in a very short time.
It hasn't devloved into high school style slobbery, but the order I've become used to has definitely suffered some. Clothes on the floor, books strewn everywhere, and the first signs of chaos are taking hold. I was planning on a day's cleaning on the eve of Nadia's return; I find myself thinking of a general clean instead of the opening game of the World Juniors. What the hell is up with that?