I like mopping the floors. I love how my arms ache as I squeeze the mop dry on the final round while I’m completely drenched wet in sweat. I usually mop in three rounds: twice with soapy water and a final one with just normal water. Whenever it’s my turn to do the house chores, I like to mop in the late afternoon on a weekend when no one else is at home, or at night when everyone has gone to sleep.
When I’m alone at home, I’d mop while listening to music on my iPod mini. There’s something about stopping in front of the mirror with the mop stick in hand and miming a duet with David Tao or Gary Lightbody that cracks me up. In a case of syok sendiri, it’s so self-gratifying that floor areas in front of mirrors in the apartment are usually spotless. On hot humid days, I’d sing out loud and bring the rain for a pleasant night.
Sometimes I find mopping cathartic. I reckon it is the best cure for anger and malicious thoughts, other than cleaning the toilet and swimming laps. Working all the anger into cleaning the floor usually leaves me totally spent. Best of all, after a long shower and finally collapsing into bed, I’d go to sleep with a grin and a peaceful mind.
Late-night mopping is usually done in silence as my mind distills the daily tumult of thoughts. Like some act of self-renewal, every floor tile mopped clean is one more space for a lovely thought or feeling. Aahh… mopping, my yoga for the soul.
