While I grumble about having to do dishes, the irrefutable fact is that my appliance does the dirty work. Literally. I place mugs in the racks, and lift them out when they are clean. But my hands are never immersed in sudsy water.

This has not always been the case. Dishwashers were not standard issue in the early eighties and we lived our first decade of married life without one. First world problem. But I do recall the words trailing out of my mouth on a daily basis. 

"Be there in a minute! Doing dishes..."

Now I plop plates, gritty and slimy, into the dishwasher, add soap and shut the door. While I move on to more pleasurable activities, they magically get clean. 

The same is true of my washer. I sigh and consider myself worthy of accolades for hauling piles of crumpled clothes to the basement and chucking them into the gaping mouth. I lumber back upstairs while the shirts and sheets are freed of dirt with no more assistance from me than pushing the button and paying the electric bill. 

There are components of my character that are cleaner than in years past. This Christmas I was not loaded down with gritty sentiments like the need to impress anyone, or create a table fit for royalty. In the absence of self importance, there was room for joy.

I could pat myself on the back for the win, but the truth is Someone else did the work behind closed doors. All I did was show up on a regular basis.