Chores.

Never was a fan of them. Not as a child. Nor as an adult. Can’t say I even like the word, which brings to mind unpleasant tasks that no one wants to do. Sadly, they need to be done by someone, and when you’re a kid staring at those $1.25 comics you want to buy or the cool new Transformers you want, suddenly, you become a bit more willing to mow the lawn. Or wash dishes. Or clean the car. Or vacuum the living room.  Willing, yes. Thrilled? Not so much.

Throughout my life, I’ve done a fair amount of chores, both as a child living with my parents and sister, as well as an adult living with roommates or extended family (as I am now). I still really don’t *like* doing chores, but as I’ve aged, I recognize that they need doing, and as someone who contributes to messes in the home, or who benefits from living in the residence, it is my job to contribute to maintenance.  I’m fine with that (though I miss the days of being paid for doing them). It is what it is. There is one chore that I typically avoid, bc it is one that taxes me the most.

It’s not washing the dishes, cleaning my room, or folding clothes. It’s not even mowing the lawn (though this one comes close, as my aunt’s home sits on a huge plot of land, which I thankfully don’t have to mow any longer).

No, for me, this chore is wholly mental.  It’s taxing bc of the amount of time it takes to complete. Depending on the length of time it takes to complete, it can take a week or even months. Hell, sometimes I’ve just given up and tossed the book to the side and never gone back to it.

You read that right:  reading is a chore.

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