one hundred and fifty six

 

I washed today and ironed today and washed some more and ironed some more. I am grateful B is home with a bag full of washing. I am. Really I am. But I hate ironing. And no, I simply cannot find my meditative ironing bliss.  But I am grateful for the little chuckle at my life. At change. At choice. I am grateful for my newfound humility and my silly pride at a job well done.  But I still hate ironing. And I still don’t do windows.

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