Chores, the fourth dimension, and granny underpants

Here's the thing I hate about chores--laundry, dishes, vacuuming, whatever:  You do them, and then, a week later, it's like you never did them at all. The dishes revert back to being NOT done, the rug is full of cat hair, and all your shirts are smelly.

Chores are like this horrible microcosm of life, where you fight the forces of decay, entropy, disintegration, complete and utter disorder, death, nothingness. Yet those forces seem to have the upper hand. Or you know that someday, they will.

When I was young I used to live in a household of drunken, rabble-rousing but cute musicians and we called the sink, which was always clogged and full of dishes, the cockroach swimming pool. Decay was winning in that household.  I have come a long way from that, and I actually do the dishes every day, but decay still seems to be winning. Being a writer is not conducive to chores (or plant upkeep, but that's a different subject. yet not really). Usually it takes guests coming for cleaning to happen, and being down to my why-the-hell-are-these-even-in-my-drawer granny underpants for me to do any laundry.

When I was in high school, we had this geometry teacher who was clearly a major pothead. He was explaining dimensions, and told us that the first dimension is a point, the second dimension is what can be drawn on paper, like a line. The third dimension, of course, is what we exist in. And the fourth dimension is time. His illustration for this was a brick wall. And eventually vines will grow on it and completely smash it down, over time. Because time, the fourth dimension kicks ass on the third.

I would submit that the fourth dimension, by my old teacher's example, is decay and disintegration rather than time. And it is through refusing to do chores that I glimpse that fourth dimension, and therefore, glimpse eternity! While wearing granny underpants!!