Oh, holy naivety.
Oh, snow-white gloves full of tears.
Oh, other people’s apartments, where the logic of things died during the renovation. Object No. 1: “Apartment after a bachelor”
I walked in — and immediately realized that they hadn’t cleaned here since Russia became independent.
— The dust was so ancient that I felt like I was sneezing in three eras at once.
— There was a colony of cookies (and in full force) living under the sofa.
— I found… honestly, I’m not sure what it was in the refrigerator. It moved on its own. When I asked, "What exactly needs to be cleaned?", he said:
"Just to keep it clean."
Yeah. Just. To keep it clean. Without casualties, preferably.
Object #2: "A girl with a cat and 147 types of hair"
You know what I learned? Cats can be bald, but there will still be hair everywhere.
On the curtains. On the ceiling. On the closet, where he can't seem to jump, but he jumped anyway.
And the owner herself walked around the apartment in a silk robe, drank coffee and said:
"Oh, I would clean too, but my nails are..."
And I have calluses and gloves covered in battle dirt.
My discoveries are in progress:
— People hide strange things in the most unexpected places. For example, slippers in the freezer.
— A rag is not just a rag. It's your partner, your friend, your weapon, and sometimes your handkerchief (in moments of despair).
— A vacuum cleaner can sound like a desperate cry from the heart if it encounters five-day-old pasta under the table.
Main conclusion:
Being a cleaner is a sport, psychology, and philosophy all rolled into one.
You don't just clean. You learn about someone else's life from the fingerprints on the mirror and the tracks on the floor.
And you begin to respect that girl inside you who washes the floors to Beyoncé and doesn't complain.
And also...
Now, when someone says:
"Cleaners? What's so hard about that? Just wave a rag!" —
I take a deep breath, count to three, and silently wipe that table. Because that's what professionals do.