Why Don't You Clean Your Apartment?
Or why (temporarily) ignoring the news is not irresponsible.
Over the last three weeks, as so many of us have struggled to come to terms with the bizarre political backdrop in our own unique way, I feel like I’ve learned more about human nature than I’d expected.
On Wednesday, November 6, after dropping my daughter off at school, having a second cup of tea, doomscrolling for a few minutes, reading but not responding to a barrage of text messages from friends and family in Europe, and then sighing my way through a call with one of my editors, I felt an overwhelming desire to clean the apartment.
I didn’t feel like vacuuming or mopping, though. I didn’t want to scrub the toilet or the shower or the kitchen sink, either. Instead, I wanted to go through my wardrobe, my shoes, even my books, and then my daughter’s wardrobe, shoes and books, and really clean shop. I wanted to haul away the old, the too small, the unloved, the outdated, and the redundant. I wanted to give it all to charity and make space. I wanted to plunder the kitchen closets and dump all the old chipped mugs and black spatulas that are giving us cancer. And so I did.
Then I went through my bathroom closet. Free samples of creams and potions and lotions that I’d stashed away over the years—just in case I turned into the kind of person who uses a serum—were tossed. Old dental floss and coagulated toothpaste and cotton wool buds and blunt razor blades that pre-dated the pandemic filled up the trash.
An hour or so into my purge, I paused to exhale. Then I switched on my computer opened my emails and systematically started deleting hundreds, and then thousands, of emails—read and unread, once useful but now irrelevant—that had been clogging up my inbox for longer than I care to admit.
And finally, the fridge. Old cheese, juice and an ominous looking marinade with no best-before date was chucked without so much as one last close-up sniff. For good measure, a cupboard next to the fridge that I never really look in got a long-overdue forensic inspection. Some cashews that looked suspiciously grey found their bitter end. Broken teabags were swept away. Then I took all the rubbish out and opened the windows wide. The unseasonably warm air spilled in; not exactly fresh, but not unwelcome.
I wouldn’t go so far as to say that I felt good, but despite the sense of being on a one-way highway to a freakish dystopia, I felt marginally better than I had an hour earlier. It was odd. I embraced it.
In the days that followed, I realized that I had distracted myself from the state of the world—which I had no chance of controlling—by taking control of the things that were within my control. The things I could expunge. And I realized that, if it helped me tolerate everything else that was going on, then that was a win.
Friends I’ve spoken to in recent weeks have told me of an urge to “go inwards”; to be alone in this moment. Not to be around others and certainly not to engage in inane conversations that mimic the most depressing broken record. I don’t think that’s unrelated to the control thing. It’s self-care.
In August, I wrote a piece for The Persistent on the case for drowning out the news. Even back then, months before we knew what would happen in the U.S. election, it felt like every week was worthy of it’s own remake of Billy Joel’s ‘We Didn’t Start The Fire’. But—I argued—for most of us, it’s not necessary to pay minute-by-minute attention every day to the omnipresent screens relentlessly broadcasting the maelstrom of headlines.
In many societies, there’s an expectation that an upstanding citizen should keep abreast of current affairs—indeed, democracy demands it. But now more than ever, I feel like that is actually irresponsible. If engaging makes us sick or sad or sleepless, we simply have to stop. If deleting emails and taking a stack of books to Salvation Army has a more pleasant affect on our mental health than watching CNN, well, it’s a no-brainer.
Some people may not need to hear this, but some definitely do, so here goes. You don’t have to talk about politics. You don’t have to engage in conversations about how RFK Jr might ban vaccines in America. Even though you are reading this newsletter, which implies than you care about gender equality, you don’t need to dwell on the fact that a second Trump presidency will likely lead to a rollback of civil rights.
You are allowed to engage in what media types like to describe as counter-programming. Watch Rivals. Re-watch Fleabag (like I’m doing). Do an epic spring clean of your apartment and bask in the unrealistic prospect of, from now on, only buying things you really, really need.
One thing I particularly enjoyed last week? Reading this article about why everyone seems to be obsessed with boobs. Trust me, it’s intriguing.
There will always be time to worry and fret and discuss the plight of our planet. And what’s more, without rest and escape many of us won’t have the strength to fight in a way we ultimately all have to. But today and in this moment, there are things that can wait. Tomorrow we can groan and moan and ask rhetorical questions about the state of democracy and the spinelessness of the judiciary. Tomorrow there’ll be time to google how much damage a nuclear war really could do.
So in the spirit of this, rather than writing about research on the backlash against DEI, or anything to do with Matt Gaetz (shudder), here are three stories about women (and in some cases money and power) that won’t trigger existential angst. Enjoy. Normal programming may well resume soon.
The world’s tallest woman and the world’s shortest woman met for afternoon tea to mark Guinness World Records Day, CNN reports. Rumeysa Gelgi, who stands 215.16 centimeters (7 feet 0.7 inches) tall, and Jyoti Amge, who’s just 62.8 centimeters (2 feet 0.7 inches), met at the Savoy Hotel in London, according to a statement from Guinness World Records. Apparently, despite the height difference, the pair got on famously.
Elsewhere, a Japanese manicurist is using her art to combat plastic pollution, Reuters reports. Naomi Arimoto opened a nail salon in 2018 after a spinal condition forced her to give up her career as a social worker. Since 2021, she's been using Umigomi—or "sea trash"—to make nail art. She uses a custom wheelchair to scour the nearby beach every month to gather microplastics that other cleaners might miss.
And finally, a diamond-studded necklace which, according to Reuters, is thought to be linked to a scandal that hastened the downfall of the doomed 18th century queen of France, Marie Antoinette, sold at auction in Geneva last week for 4.26 million Swiss francs ($4.81 million). You can eat a lot of cake for that.
That’s all from me this week. Happy Thanksgiving to those who are celebrating. Go on, have a second slice of pie.
I’ll leave you with a picture of me from Miami Book Fair this past weekend—my first book fair as a featured author. I felt a bit like an awkward teenager on her first day at a new school, but overall a fantastic experience.
I’ll be back in your inboxes December 9.
Thank you so much for being a loyal reader—always, but particularly right now.
Josie
Ps: As usual, one last shameless request. If you’ve read WOMEN MONEY POWER, the book, or listened to the audiobook, I would hugely appreciate it if you could take thirty seconds to post a review or rate it on Amazon using this link. If Goodreads is your jam, that’s just as great, and you can leave a review or rating here. A million thanks for your support!