I Hate Washing Dishes

My friends and I just got back from our Super Bowl party, and there are dirty dishes in the sink.

That irritates me.

I hate washing dishes, and yes I mean “HATE”. What’s unfortunate is I hate the sight of dirty dishes even more which means that I end up doing something I hate.

Up until a couple months ago, the only (few) dirty dishes in the sink were mine. Now that I have roommates, there’s dishes in the sink that don’t belong to me, and it’s quite annoying.

This is probably really immature of me, but I hate doing dishes so much that I’ll either eat out or skip a meal just to avoid dishes. I like cooking, but I rarely do because the fun in cooking is outweighed by the dreadful dishes.

My smoldering hatred for dirty dishes began in my childhood.

In her wisdom (which I now begrudgingly appreciate), my mom made up her mind that her oldest son would be house-trained. That meant I learned at a young age how to thoroughly scrub dishes – pots and pans included. When you grow up with 8 brothers and sisters, washing dishes after any meal was the worst punishment imaginable. It amazing how many dirty dishes can be generated by 11 people at one meal. On top of that, cooking for 11 people meant that the dirty pots were massive.

I had my few flashes of brilliance, but my mom soon caught onto all my little tricks. “I’m soaking the pots” only worked or so long, “I ran out of dish soap” (by hiding it) caused more trouble than I care to remember, and eventually I succumbed to my torture and dutifully began the endless scrubbing.

When I actually begin washing dishes, I just try to find my happy place and survive.

I would never admit this to my mom, but as a little boy, I used to have a tiny bit of fun washing dishes. In hindsight, I feel bad for the sibling who had to rinse the dishes I washed. I’d throw bubbles at them, turn off the cold water when they weren’t looking, or try to wash super fast so that I could overwhelm them with soapy dishes. But in my defense, those pranks were just coping methods to deal with the dish trauma.

Now that I’m all grown up, I have nobody to adorn with bubbles or just tease, both of which would make washing dishes so much more tolerable. Instead, I hatefully stare at the pile of dirty dishes, silently scrub each dish, and then solemnly rinse the bubbles away.

It’s horrible.


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