This morning I awoke and stretched languidly in bed. It was likely my only cat-like move for the day — the rest will be stiff and sore, more stick bug than feline, so I made the stretch a good one.

And then I froze.

What was that smell?

I sniffed gingerly near my armpit, the place from which normally wafts the gentle scent of apricots from Tom’s aluminum-free deodorant, and it dawned on me —

— it just then dawned on me, guys —

— that I hadn’t showered for over three days.

And like, beyond the sheer grossness factor (I seriously hope you’ve finished your breakfasts), were the sickening senses that:

a) I hadn’t even realized it, and

b) My inaction stemmed from sheer, unadulterated laziness.

It wasn’t a sense of pointlessness or depression caused by Justin’s long absence. It wasn’t defiance against The Man for telling me I need to shower and shave my legs every day to be sexy. And it wasn’t a deep-seated fear caused by mental re-plays of the shower scene from Arachnophobia.

Nope. Not even that.

It was the simple, subconscious unwillingness to commit to the repetitive act of showering and its subsequent tedium of body hair removal, drying of crevasses, and head-to-toe moisturization application in order to maintain my skin’s healthy glow.

Because healthy glows, apparently, are for people who don’t have other things to do.

See, on Friday my life was consumed by painting cabinets and cleaning my house for the imminent arrival of the most adorable family in the world:

I showered by late afternoon, just before the chaos of two children under three-years-old broke loose in my home, and let me tell you this — it’s a miracle that any parents ever shower at all before their children turn six.

Like, when are you supposed to do it?

It’s not like you can stick ’em in a kennel while you’re busy lathering up.

(Though you’d be hard-pressed to convince me that a baby cage for just such occasions is really such a terrible idea.)

(Kidding!)

(Mostly.)

And when they’re asleep? That time, I’m told, is for grown-up stuff like the clipping of toenails and the consumption of liquor and the catching up on recorded episodes of Flipping Out and The Real Housewives of Somethingorother on Bravo.

But getting into the shower to clean off all of the things that are inevitably going to be back on you in less than twelve hours?

Ain’t nobody got time for that.

Which has apparently been my motto since Saturday morning. We were off to a swift start with a pre-game coffee chugging at 6:30, followed by play time, breakfast, car naps, a potty accident, a trip to the Virginia Living Museum, more naps and drinks on the deck, more play time, cooking a full dinner and transporting it to someone else’s house, more play time, driving home, kitchen clean-up, night-cap, and bed by 10:30.

And that was just one day.

By the time my dear friends left mid-Sunday morning, a shower was last on a long list of priorities. It was trumped by several loads of laundry, the assemblage of my new kitchen island, a long dog walk, nap on the couch, and then several hours of cabinet door painting. And since the latex paint graffiti splashed across my legs and arms was completely dry by the time I cooked myself dinner, I figured showering it off would be a bit redundant, considering the fact that I’d be painting again on Monday.

Now.

From a hygienic standpoint, it’s not like I was completely remiss. I wash the world off of my face every night before bed, and my hands, of course, always get washed several times per day. And when it comes to quick pit maintenance so I don’t scare the neighbors with Peruvian jungles of arm hair during tank top season, I’ve found a quick dry run with a razor and a cooling slather of trusty ol’ Tom’s is enough to make me feel clean. In a stinging kind of way.

Even though I’m… you know… not.

So it wasn’t until I woke up this morning thanks to my astute mental body clock apparently the scent of my own filth, that I realized I hadn’t even set foot inside a shower since Friday. It’s normal for me to go several days without washing my hair because I’m lucky like that.

But my body?

It was kind of disgusted with itself.

And I’m telling you this so you know.

So you know that, if you’ve done the same thing, you’re not alone. And so you know that, if you haven’t done the same thing, you’re probably a better person than me. You know… with priorities and such. It’s probably best that I just blame this whole incident on Abandoned Military Spouse Syndrome (I totally just made that up) and call it a day.

I have another coat of door painting to do today, but I’m not sure I’ll get around to it since I already took a shower.

What?

I’m clean.

Why would I get clean just to get dirty again? That’s how routines get started.

And we all know how I feel about those.