I just shaved under my arms.
I know, I know, your finger is on the button, ready to switch to another, more scintillating blog. But hear me out. There is a point to this story.I hate shaving under my arms. Passionately. And yet I quite enjoy shaving my legs. Why is this? Same tool, same task, just different areas of the body. So why would I detest one and not the other?
It's strange the way some chores make me crazed with murderous loathing, whilst others don't bother me at all. For example, why do I despise putting makeup on my face? Of course, I do put makeup on it - when you're 174 years old, as I am, it's virtually compulsory. But the supreme monotony of donning of eyeliner and concealer and lipgloss, day after day after endless day, makes me want to stick a mascara up my nose, just to break the painful routine. And, occasionally, I do.
Still, other aspects of my personal grooming don't bother me at all. Attending to my pores, for example, is a source of radiant delight. Nose pore are one of my most satisfying treats; in fact, any form of blackhead removal rates up there in the pleasure stakes alongside sleeping and watching The Mentalist. I believe I could spend a whole weekend in a well-lit bathroom, with nothing but a packet of pore strips and a jar of Nutella to sustain me. (In fact, the Nutella no doubt contributes to the clogging of pores, in a favourable, symbiotic relationship.)
In housework, I am equally inconsistent. I like to clean, but hate to tidy. Put a bottle of Windex in my hand and I'll contentedly polish windows for hours. But show me a messy room, and I will slam the door behind it and go rushing to squeeze my pores.
Loading the washing machine is excellent fun, but sorting the clothes afterwards is hell. And washing plates is pleasant enough, but washing glasses is so hideously nightmarish I often use disposable glasses when entertaining.
Still, easily the most repugnant chore for me is the loading of my pill container, which I am supposed to do weekly, placing each vitamin and supplement into its daily slot. And yet - though my friend Leah says she loves nothing more than to pop all of her little pills into their little homes - I will studiously avoid this job for days at a time. As a result, I inevitably forget whether I've taken my pills or not, putting myself at risk of being hugely deficient, or overdosing on various substances.
So clearly there are no universally bad tasks. One woman will adore the chore another abhors. But why do some jobs aggravate us so much?
And does anyone like cleaning the toilet???