Let me do anything possible under the sun — but not washing dishes! The sight of a washbasin or a dinner table cluttered with dirty plates, spoons, forks, glasses name all those table wares —makes me shudder even at the hottest of day.
When I was young, my parents often scolded me for this foolish "phobia." All of them suspected I was just making an alibi to escape from this after meals routine for sheer laziness.
In the family, dish-washing was assigned to us children. It was a job only me and my younger brother were "eligible" to take. We were supposed to alternate in the chore. If I did the washing in the morning, it was my brother's turn at noon. Again, the evening was mine and the next morning, my brother's.
Soon, however, I played pretty tricks to relieve myself of my dishwashing chores. When it was my turn to do the washing, I would usually eat ahead of the family, pretending later to have stomach ache. And when they began eating their dinner I would lock my room and pretend to be asleep.
But my brother considered my excuses shallow. One time, when he could no longer bear it (because he always did the chore in my behalf — who else?) he climbed the roof of my room and through a hole he found me silently laughing at the success of my "escaping game." Which he immediately reported to my mother resulting in
• belt-slap on my buttocks. Then my grandmother suggested
• new kind of rotation, if only to be fair to my brother.
So beginning that time mother posted a new schedule near the dining table. Along with it was a note on the bottom: "Disobedience will be dealt with accordingly. No work, no meals."
The new dish-washing schedule appeared like my auntie's class schedule. It was my turn during M-W-F (Monday Wednesday and Friday), three times a day —breakfast, lunch and dinner. TTS (Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday) was my brother's turn. Anybody found skipping a single washing duty would work on Sundays, which were appropriated to be our dish-washing holidays.
I knew my parents were too serious with it that I found myself obeying the order even if it meant agony on my part.
I know this is not dish-phobia. I am not afraid of clean plates and saucers. Nor with plates having sizzling steak on them. But once the plates (or any food container for that matter) become empty with some greasy leftovers in them, I try my best to avoid them.
I cannot recall how this funny feeling developed. But it must have stemmed from my parent's very rigid dish-washing assignments.
Now that I'm past my childhood it's very unfortunate I still carry this funny phobia. Ever since I found a job, -I rarely did my own cooking because I know dishwashing goes with it, especially that now I'm alone at home most of the time.
After meals I always want the table immediately cleared from used chinawares. If not, I would be the first to clear myself from the dining room. I cannot withstand looking at the immaculate china plates contaminated with meat soup or fish bones. As if I feel a butterfly trying to escape out of my hollow stomach.
When I should marry I will take a bride who is an expert in washing dishes. But she must be as,
pure and as white as a newly soaped china plate, of course.
Read more...
CAREER AND EMPLOYMENT OPPORTUNITIES
