Over time, I’ve become neurotic about some things. Neatness, mostly, which is very different from cleanliness. I like clean, but I’m not obsessed with it. I can accept dust and dirty ovens and I’m fine knowing germs exist. So I’m not unhinged.
Unless my Chuck Taylors are involved, then, yes, I’m unreasonably zealous. They have a rubber toe, a shiny white one, and I cannot abide the presence of scuff marks or splatters there. When I behold a smudge, I grab Mr. Clean’s Magic Eraser and rub it out. In the Mafia sense of rubbing out — with vengeance.
No matter how many times I use that handy little whatsit I’m amazed by how powerful it is. Not a speck or shadow of the offending blemish remains; it’s clean as a whistle and my mind is eased.
Then, the other day, a rare thought occurred: I want a Magic Eraser for my life. I have an assortment of really bad decisions and dumb mistakes and awful choices I’d like to erase. Repercussions and all, like they never happened. Does Mr. Clean make such a thing, a Magic Eraser for human errors? No, he does not. Neither does Procter & Gamble. An egregious oversight, I’m sure. One I encourage them to correct straightaway.
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