Tainted Love

Is it love or poor hygiene? I’ve been dating the same guy for three and a half weeks, and yesterday I watched a cricket-sized black bug crawl along my bedroom wall. On the right side of my computer: two empty mini-bottles of Bella Sera; crumbs from a rosemary olive oil loaf; an unwashed orange juice glass. On the left: two cans of Coke Zero; an Adelphia receipt; more crumbs. My trash can leaks deskjet paper and dental floss. My clothes hamper lists to the left. We won’t talk about my bathroom.

There are lots of songs about how love screws with your insides. Nat “King” Cole says, “This can’t be love, because I feel too well.” Love is supposed to knot your stomach; fuzz your brain; increase your heart rate, blood pressure, sweat production. It isn’t supposed to clog your sink.

To be fair, I should say it’s a little soon to use the word “love.” The guy and I certainly haven’t traded “loves” -- “I like you a lot,” we tell each other. It’s the truth. I like the moments he stops along a hike to recount a Calvino short story. I like the fact that he gave me an ironing board on our second date (purchased at a rummage sale, decorated with gingham and bemused cats). I like the way he says “hot” and “God,” because he’s from Cape Cod. And he thinks I have an accent.

I do not like the strange smell in my closet.

Sunday used to be for Mr. Clean and Tidi Bowl. Work five days; play one, and on the seventh day, scrub. I maintained that schedule through much of September, even with the five-week syllabus deficit. But now “like” has come to town, and the carpet crunches under my toes. My health is fine.

In January I’ll leave Charlottesville (maybe), and I should have time to dust again. Until then, don’t check under my bed.