If cleanliness is next to godliness, I might not make it to the pearly gates.

It’s sad that I’ve slipped so much. I was reared to know the difference. Mom made me rewash dishes or pans that didn’t pass inspection and if I dusted around the doilies instead of under, well, that only led to more chores. When I picture myself climbing the back stairs up to our apartment, in my memory I’m always sweeping them. I guess it’s a good thing I don’t have back stairs now … I’d be tripping over dust bunnies.

It’s not that I don’t dust or vacuum at all. I remember vividly that I cleaned the house in 2008. Honest. I recall that Tuesday so clearly because it was the last year I had any extra time … or energy.

As the years have stacked up my energy has vanished. And my time management skills are simply – gone.

For example: My 35-minute shower/shampoo/blow-dry/makeup routine is now over 50 minutes. All my bendable joints are moving slower, especially around slippery wet surfaces. Everything takes longer.

Then there’s my scheduled “retirement” commitments: this weekly column, the speaking engagements, other writing projects, committee work, shopping, cooking, yada, yada, yada. Who am I kidding? The first few are true, but then Dear Richard takes over. He does his own laundry, most of the house laundry, and almost all the shopping. He’s the breakfast chef and he vacuums. And if he’s not an enthusiastic duster, he is a carpet spot cleaning virtuoso. That’s an important asset when you have a yakking cat. As he keeps reminding me, “I’m retired. I have no deadlines. You need anything done, just ask.” Asking isn’t always easy, but I am getting better at it.

Before I married Richard in my later years, I was used to doing everything myself. Once in a while that even included cleaning. I used to love to polish the silver, the brass, and my collection of old copper molds. I just checked my metals inventory: the silver vase is black, the brass candlesticks are deep brown, and the copper hasn’t twinkled since Hillary declared for president – the first time.

My late mother-in-law was Mrs. Clean. Dorothy was of German farm stock and cleanliness wasn’t next to godliness; it WAS godliness. When I was first married to her son, I was terrified of her visits and I remember late nights of polishing counter-top appliances, waxing end tables, and scrubbing windows. I learned, early on, that windows washed at midnight don’t sparkle at noontime.

I won’t say Dorothy wore white gloves, but I once walked into the living room as she was running her fingers across the bookshelves, checking for dust. Dorothy and Pop planned their visits well in advance. You would think with lots of notice I wouldn’t be washing flies out of ceiling light fixtures at 2 a.m.

Naturally, my in-law’s little house was immaculate. Imagine our surprise when we arrived one weekend after Pop had retired and found dust on top of their television. Unable to contain his curiosity (and trying hard not to smirk), Tom said, “Mother, have you been ill?” She assured us she hadn’t been and she wondered why he’d asked. When I kidded her about the dust she said, “We’re retired now. It can wait until tomorrow … it’s not going anywhere.”

As the years passed, I learned that extra household chores were required to host guests.

Now that every project takes longer to accomplish, last minute preparations are normal. The stacks of important papers that get moved from place to place never seem to make it to the filing cabinet before company arrives. Last year, I searched for the September tax bills so long that I admitted defeat and got duplicates. I found them months later in a stack of Medicare statements stashed under a skirted table.

By the way, every house should have at least one table with a full-length tablecloth. I have three skirted tables on the first floor and two on the second. A couple of tables hide air-conditioners in the winter, but in the summer they’re fair game for last-minute ditching of magazine stacks and sandals.

While I have a fair amount of cooking to do for dinner guests this weekend, I still hope to dust in the living room. Sometimes I manage with a flick of my bathrobe or swipe of my apron. It looks the same.

Never mind, my food will be immaculate. The dust? Well, the dust will wait. It’s not going anywhere.

So much for godliness.

Marcy O’Brien writes from her home in Warren, Pa.