That Pile of Sand

My apartment has hardwood floors in the living room and the master bedroom. Hardwood floors are kind of a pain in the ass to take care of--they're dusty again two seconds after you've swept and polished them--but I like the way they look.

Of course, I don't like the way they look right now. Since I've been home from Michigan, I haven't really cleaned much of anything. This is odd for me. I'm a cleaner, a perpetual tidier. I like order and gleaming surfaces. I clean the bathroom when I need to relax, and the sight of a rack full of just-washed dishes pleases me in ways I'll never be able to explain. In short, I am a sick, sick girl.

So I don't exactly understand why I haven't gotten out the broom to sweep my floors. They need it. They need it bad. I went to the beach this weekend, and there is a little pile of sand that fell out of my towel as I was stuffing it in the to-wash basket, and I have been tracking through that sand for days now. I look at the sand and think Yeah, that needs to be cleaned up, but I never get around to it. I think about walking to get the broom, but then I just decide I'll get to it later.

I've got sand on the bottoms of my feet. I'm constantly itching it off, brushing it back onto the floor, and the cycle repeats itself. So why won't I go get that broom?