Until this summer, I had never lived in an apartment with its own washer and dryer.

Prior to July, washing my clothes (and, with disturbing infrequency, bed sheets) meant layers of strategic planning. Sometimes it meant hauling a wire cart, stuffed with sacks of musty bras, three blocks down Myrtle Avenue, to the nearest laundromat. Other times it meant descending into a basement whose rat population was kept at bay by a friendly three-legged cat.

As of this summer, I can separate my white socks from my black sweaters with no regard for the number of quarters in my possession. I don’t have to pretend my dishtowels don’t vaguely smell of mildew at all times; I can simply toss them in the hamper, where they will await a timely cleaning, and then pull out a fresh one from a kitchen drawer.

Having laundry to do, mums to water, and dishwasher filters to clean is glorious — luxurious even. It’s also so normal in a way that’s hypnotizing.

I see how folding fresh clothes and preparing a week’s worth of lunches into neatly-stacked Pyrex containers can be the stuff of a life, with Love is Blind episodes to fill the space in between. The days feel full enough to send you to bed tired. Add in a regular gym regimen and maybe one social interaction per week and your calendar is booked and busy as can be.

There is no rhythm to my writing lately. Creativity comes in fits and starts. I have a box of pastels next to the couch, poised. My writing notebook is tucked under the laptop I use for work. Everything is ready for me, but suddenly there is far too much laundry to do.

There are many people who would rather have their lives be comfortable than interesting, and both qualities cannot always coexist. I once heard someone say that, in order to be a powerful, creative woman, you also have to let your house be a little messy. Dust needs to gather in the corners of your house, or else it will gather in the corners of your soul.