There’s a bone-tired, satisfied feeling that comes after a day of doing things that just need to be done.

Years ago, during my son’s early years, I had a housekeeper.  In a weird way, I think my health has improved to the point that I can do without one.  True enough, I can’t get the place quite as clean as a professional or as an able-bodied amateur.  But I can get it organized, orderly and scrubbed enough for my purposes.  Doing so feels grand.

I’m easy to please in some ways.  I don’t need luxury — just a tidy, inviting home.

The chores to which I set my attention yesterday made the house livable in ways that mean something to me.  After 10 years or so of flimsy, thrift-store sheers, I got curtains for the dining room.  I re-arranged furniture, swept the room that my son just vacated, and packed away some things he decided not to take.  The dog bed has a new, temporary cover devised from an idle mattress cover and a couple of binder clips. It works, for now, and is certainly cleaner and in better shape than what I discarded.

By the end of the day, the house smelled fresh and new. My bones ached and in fact, still do.  My muscles feel challenged.  But the satisfaction of completing every chore on my list outweighs the brutal consequences of having done so.  I’m not complaining!  It’s a great day to be alive, and when I get home this evening, the afterglow of my weekend efforts will welcome me.