Mostly I think it’s the high-fructose corn syrup, but the other culprit is the cleaning products aisle.
I’ve toted the same box of S.O.S pads from move to move for the last eight years. But I don’t use them. Nope. Instead, I’m drawn to every label that promises to do the work for me. “Spray it on and wipe it off!” was the first new-and-improvement. Then all you had to do was spray and rinse. Once it got to just spraying it on and then, well, nothing, we should have been a bit suspicious that the chemists had simply invented a way to camouflage soap scum.
Tidying up in the 20th and 21st centuries, I’ve probably ethyl- methyl- tripolymer-ed my fingerprints off and I’m pretty sure my grandchildren will have two heads a piece. So it was almost quaint to take a run at the shower with spun wool impregnated with a little plain soap. But now I want back every penny I’ve ever paid over the cost of a box of steel wool. Not to mention, the hours of exercising that could have been trimmed by a little honest work.
I could feel my shoulder muscles heat up and my heartrate humming along faster and I knew I’d been swindled into thinking that time saved in the housework translated into gains in opportunities for nobility and self-improvement. I probably just ate more partially-hydrogenated caramel coloring.
It’s simply amazing what we’ll do to avoid bending over and putting a little effort into taking care of our space. And really, how convenient is having to buy the next size pants every year?