Last weekend, I was feeling a little blue.

I didn’t have a major social plan.  (Watching The Oscars at a friend’s the other week was just a memory, as was the 7-layer dip and libations that went with it).

The weather, for February, although not totally cocoon-inducing, did not make me want to take a long walk.

I made progress on tax prep but was not ready to send things off to my accountant.

My laundry basket, tucked away in my closet, far from my dog who would find its contents more interesting that I care to think about, was full.

While not my first choice of pastimes, streaming movies and freshening up my wardrobe seemed to be on the docket. At first, I was not too pleased about this reality.

It felt like I donned a sour expression on my face when I went to bed Friday night and woke up on Saturday morning with the same expression, only imprinted more deeply.

“Have to do laundry,” I scowled.

Then a new perspective came over me.

“Clean sheets,” I heard myself say out loud, although I was alone.

I beamed.

Having clean sheets was such a simple joy.

I love pulling back the covers after my bed has been made with sheets recently retrieved from the dryer.

They’re soft and smooth, and they smell good. With a newly made bed, there’s a decreased likelihood that you will find surprises, like dog hairs or socks that didn’t make it to the hamper the previous week.

Sleeping in clean sheets is like having new skin.

It’s like you have extra nerve endings and senses in your extremities. Every time you stretch or roll over, you can feel the cotton against your body. It is comforting in its familiarity, but it also feels like you are diving into unchartered territory.

Besides the sense pleasure of running your legs along just laundered fabric, there’s an odd sort of pride. Cleaning your sheets and making your bed is something easily done by yourself. And you don’t have to fret that you don’t do this household task as good as your mother or friend.

I remember when I was twenty-two, in my first apartment, I actually used to enjoy cleaning my floors.

Every other week, I would kneel on a foam pad and scrub the linoleum in my kitchen by hand. I would look at my silhouette reflected in the Fifty Shades of Grey pail full of soapy water whenever I leaned over it to wet and wring out my sponge.

I remember feeling a surge of pride, at having my own place even though I had few pieces of furniture and what I had was mostly borrowed from friends.

I felt good about taking on the responsibility of keeping my home clean. Little domestic chores made me feel very adult.

Now that I have been indoctrinated into the Swiffer culture, the idea of getting on my knees to clean a floor seems ludicrous.

But I’m grateful that I have a place I can call home, a place that I want to keep clean.

Whenever I perform my weekend cleaning rituals, I am reminded of the first time I had my own place and the feeling of being pleased with myself for applying an appropriate level of care.

And laundry remains among my favorite regular tasks. I love tucking myself between clean sheets and feeling as if I’m exploring the most familiar of places in a new way.

Understanding that keeping your environment clean is part of taking care of yourself is no small thing.