Because a dishwasher? It's like oxygen.

I don't have a dishwasher. My kitchen barely has room for a stove. Or a sink, for that matter. But alas, there IS a sink. But no dishwasher. I grew up with a dishwasher, yes. But that doesn't mean I'm too good to wash my own dishes. I can do chores. I like to clean. But I'm also a procrastinator.

So I let dishes sit in the sink. And sit even longer in the sink. And continue to sit. And pile up. They pile up so high, I have to start piling them in the OTHER half of the sink. The "Once Dishes Overflow Into THIS Side Of The Sink, You're In Trouble. And Also Lazy" side of the sink. And then once things become overwhelming, as in "It's Going To Take You Eight Days To Wash All Of These Dishes By Hand" overwhelming, I go into hiding.

There are two things in life I can't handle - being overwhelmed, and the smell of wet peanut butter. So, really, if you combine an overwhelming sink-full of dirty dishes, which include the many, many knives used to craft peanut butter toast each morning, that equals Krista Wants To Die. And Also Not Do Her Dishes. Ever. And They Will Continue To Sit In The Sink Until One Would Believe The Occupant Of The Kitchen Died Four Months Ago And No One Has Noticed OR Washed The Dishes.

This is the point I reached last week. I actually ran OUT of clean plates. And forks. Spoons. Sanity. I began to sweat every time I looked at my Mountain Of Dirty Dishes. My pulse quickened because I knew, I just KNEW, my time had come. I HAD to wash the dishes. A task that is considerably equivalent to a toddler having to gain control of a small country while blind-folded. Read: I do NOT want to do this.

So I began, dish by dish. By dish. By dish. By dish. By dish. My God. Make It Stop. I Hate Washing Dishes. Mom. Help. By dish. By dish. By dish. Seriously.

My fingers pruned. I tested my gag reflex with each remnant of wet peanut butter on my knives. I ran out of counter space to dry clean dishes. My life flashed before my eyes. I had nightmares about becoming a professional dishwasher and leading a life of pruned fingers and wet peanut butter. I cried out for my mom. Or God. Or a dishwasher. And don't tell anyone, but I totally threw away a couple plates. Two knives. And a spoon. I just couldn't go on. And those plates? I mean, seriously. How many plates does one girl need? I won't miss those two plates. Or the eating utensils.

OK, so I totally threw THREE plates away, and also some forks. But honestly. I DON'T NEED THEM. Consider it Purging Excess Baggage. Cleansing The Clutter. I'll probably live a few extra years, if you think about it. I feel lighter. Happier. It's working already...

And then I was done. And the sink was empty. And clean. And I went out and bought paper plates because I swore I'd never use a dish again. And I have yet to do so. Take that, wet peanut butter.