I have decided to make a confession, to come clean as it were. I have a phobia. I have had it for years and years and years. It is not reasonable and yet it persists in permeating into my everyday existence. I have an uncontrolled "fear-of-dusting".
There, I said it. Therapy does not help. I have found it impossible to find a knowledgeable counselor. There is not any research being done on this condition and I fear that it might never receive the attention of the mental health community. Those of us who suffer from "fear-of-dusting" must cope as best we may.
It all began as a result of my mother's neglect. She worked in the fields, administered the business of the farm, and bore the responsibility of feeding and raising six children. Why she did not find time to dust and to teach her daughter the skills of dusting I do not know. It might have been a flaw in her character or perhaps it was simply an error of omission. Regardless, my introduction to dusting was not made during those all-important formative years. There is nothing we can do to change the past.
As the years have passed, dust bunnies have multiplied with abandon in my home; seldom used objects have faded through time to gray shadows of their former selves. I have been helpless to fight this scourge.
I tried a feather duster to no avail. It moved the dust from the object to the air from which it again settled on the object. It did not come with instructions, perhaps I failed to follow correct procedure.
I tried the brush attachment on the vacuum cleaner to no avail. Although it removed the dust, it was difficult to maneuver the long metal wand without breaking things. After demolishing two lamps I decided that the rate of return on this technique was unacceptable.
I tried a damp cloth to no avail. While wet, the appearance of surfaces seemed to have improved. However, surfaces dried to display gray streaks that were resistant to anything but a good washing down.
It is a sad tale. All efforts and hope had been abandoned. I tell of it now only because I perceive that a cure is in sight. New on the market are pieces of Microfiber fabric that claim to lift dust and grease. Desperate, I sought out this wonder product in hope of a miracle.
It is too early to guarantee a prognosis, but I may be on the road to recovery. The battle is uphill. The first foray with my little wonder cloth revealed the depth of the problem. It did remove the dust, all of the dust. Two picture frames and a bookcase later I needed a second miracle cloth, and so it went. Having purchased only three miracle cloths, the dusting has not proceeded beyond the west-side of the living room. The cloths we purchased are washable and so further treatment must be postponed until the laundry has been done.
Optimism permeates the situation.
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