I just had my house cleaned by a professional house-cleaner named Maria. This was a gift from two of my daughters, a gift I had chosen when they asked what I would like most. Maria brought a crew of two helpers with her and required that I disappear until they finished. I trusted her because she already works regularly for one of the daughters, who swears by her.

When I returned home a few hours later I found a transformation: my home was in perfect order, with shining surfaces, no dust visible anywhere, and best of all, an immaculate range and gleaming oven.

That was five days ago. I’m still basking in the glory of what looks like good housekeeping, but is really a Christmas present, a temporary masquerade. I know I won’t keep it this way. I can’t. I’ve known it ever since I was a young housewife in my first neighborhood with my first child, though it took me years, decades, to admit it.

For one thing, I don’t see my surroundings the way a good housekeeper does. Some people notice things visually, others’ minds are elsewhere. With me, plants can die, objects can sit out of place for weeks, and it seldom occurs to me to change my home decor because I’m not paying attention to it. I maintain normal standards of health and hygiene, but I tend to ignore clutter and, all too often, dust.

And I’m lazy; I admit it. A kinder way to put it is that some people are born to be physically active and others just don’t have the metabolism for it. I can’t think while I’m moving around, and mental activity is a lot more important to me than the physical kind. My mind is athletic; my body is not. And my athletic mind hates tedium. The boredom of housecleaning is crazy-making. Unlike some women, I can’t think about two things at once, so my inner thoughts have to go on hold while I do the chore, whatever it is.

Plus I have no talent for the job. And good housekeeping is a talent. I admire and envy and am amazed by the good housekeepers I know—their competence and dexterity, their energy and discipline, their creativity and vision for their homes. For years I tried to be one of them but it became a joke. I was and am inept.

I’m good at several other things, and I have always told myself that housecleaning isn’t necessarily supposed to be a woman’s default preoccupation. But all the evidence I’ve seen in my long life tells me that it kind of is. However, now I’m old and have numerous physical reasons for not measuring up. I just needed one thing to mark my transition to acceptance of my true nature.

Hence my request for the gift of Maria.