It never fails: Iāll walk into a room to see my husband hunched over, vigorously cleaning something: scrubbing grease splatters on the stove, attacking some muddy footprints on the entryway rug, or coaxing out the ginormous dust bunnies that collect in that little space between the oven and the refrigerator, peppered with stray popcorn seeds, or, if youāre lucky, some pocket change. He becomes so completely absorbed in the task at hand, that Iāll slowly, carefully approach him from the side. Align myself squarely in his peripheral vision. Avoid making sudden moves.
āAre you ā¦ mad?ā Iāll ask him.
After two decades of marriage, Iāve identified my husband as a rage cleaner. Of course, his answer is always, āNo, Iām not mad.ā But his death grip on the sponge in his hand betrays him; those veins sticking out on the side of his neck tell the real story.
My husband’s cleaning episodes are legendary: Entire closets have been emptied. He thinks nothing of climbing to the roof to rip leaves and debris out of our gutters with his bare hands. There was the time he removed 100% of the garageās contents just to powerwash the floor. When the mood strikes, nothing is sacred; if Marie Kondo directs us to keep only the items that āspark joy,ā my husbandās approach is to remove items that spark ire. Tomato, tomahto.
When it comes to handling anger, cleaning really isnāt a bad way to go, I guess. I just never understood the appeal.
Until this week.
Something enraged me the other day. What it was, I couldnāt even tell you. But I remember the white-hot fire that burned in my belly all afternoon, as I stewed over something that was beyond my control and seemed so, so unfair. That telltale vein at the side of my temple started pulsating, and there was a primal scream slowly gathering strength in the pit of my stomach, threatening to escape at full blast, probably terrifying the neighbors. (Do my lungs actually have enough power to produce a wail that would echo down our street, ping-ponging back and forth between pine trees? I was willing to find out.)
Instead, my eyes zeroed in on our refrigerator, covered with so many photos, out-of-date invitations, lists written on scraps of paper, and an odd assortment of promotional magnets, pushed on us by car dealerships, colleges, and banks. Every time I passed the fridge, it seemed something would loosen in my wake, and Iād hear the rustle of paper or the clatter of a magnet hitting the floor.
In the matter of a few minutes, my once-cluttered fridge stood bare. It was as if Iād lost consciousness for a few seconds, clearing, cleaning, and sorting without anything to rely on but muscle memory. I was ruthless. Nothing was spared. It was small potatoes compared to my husbandās cleaning frenzies, but I had taken a little corner of my world, cleared it off, and polished it up until it sparkled. I stood back to admire my work. I feltā¦content. In control. My breath was even, and instead of anger, I feltā¦pride. I had accomplished something. Something in the world made sense, right there in my own house.
Iām not ready for the big leagues yet. I donāt see myself power-washing the garage any time soon. But for the first time, I understood what all the rage is about rage cleaning. We canāt always fix the big things, but we can shine up our sink or straighten the bookcase. We can take back control somewhere, even when we are feeling small and insignificant elsewhere. In the process, whatās the harm? We make our surroundings a little bit nicer.
A few weeks ago, our 21-year-old son texted me from his apartment in Chicago. He wrote: āYou know when Dad is mad and he cleans a lot? I did that last night. I think itās genetic.ā
I think it might be. Maybe a little contagious, too.
