I’m 65 years old, and I can’t stand when someone comes to my house.
Many might judge me, but I don’t care what others think. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t hate people or my friends. It’s just that I can’t bear anyone crossing the threshold of my home. Meetings can take place anywhere—a park, outside, at someone else’s—but not at mine. I’m exhausted, and that’s that.
I turned 65 recently, and since then, everything’s changed. Just a couple of years back, I was ready to open the doors of my home in a small town near Manchester to anyone who wanted to come. But now the mere thought of guests sends shivers down my spine and fills me with silent frustration. After the last gathering, I spent two days cleaning my flat, as if after a storm. Before that, I stood in the kitchen all day, cooking mountains of food, and then spent another two days clearing out the mess and chaos. Why should I do this? I no longer want to waste my life on such things.
I remember how it used to be, and it makes me feel a pang of sadness and fatigue. A week before guests arrived, I’d start a deep cleaning: washing windows, scrubbing floors, tidying every corner. Then I’d rack my brain over what to serve to please everyone. And those heavy shopping bags! I lugged them upstairs to the fourth floor, panting and cursing everything. And when the guests arrive, it starts. You have to serve everyone, ensure plates aren’t empty, make sure there’s enough for all, and that everything shines. Fetch this, take away that, serve this, clean that—you’re the chef, the waiter, the dishwasher, and the cleaner all in one. Your feet ache, your back hurts, and you can’t even sit down for a decent conversation because someone always needs something.
And for what? To collapse afterward, looking at a wrecked kitchen? Enough, I’ve had it. Why torture myself when there are people who will do a better job and quicker for money? All celebrations, meetings, and gatherings are now only in cafes or restaurants. It’s cheaper, simpler, and doesn’t drain my spirit. After dinner, there’s nothing to clean, no mess to take care of—just go home, lie in bed, and sleep with a clear conscience.
I now believe in living actively and not wilting within four walls. We already spend too much time at home, and meeting friends outside is a rare treat, almost a luxury. Everyone has work, responsibilities, and who finds the time to just sit around? I realized that my whole life I’ve worked like a dog—for family, for children, for others. Now I want to focus on myself, on my peace.
I’ve developed a habit: during my lunch break, I call my friend Nina and drag her to a nearby cafe where they serve desserts that make your mouth water. Why didn’t I do this before? I astound myself—how many years did I waste trapping myself in domestic routines!
I think every woman can understand me. Just hint at hosting guests at home, and your head starts pounding with thoughts: what to cook, how to clean, how to impress? It’s not joy, it’s a burden. Of course, if a friend drops by for five minutes, I won’t kick her out—I’ll pour some tea, we’ll chat. But it’s better to arrange in advance and meet in a cozy coffee shop. It has become my salvation, my little bit of happiness.
To all women, I say this: don’t fear spending a fortune in a restaurant. You’ll spend more at home—not just pounds, but nerves and health too. I calculated: on groceries, on cleaning, on time that goes nowhere, it turns out more expensive than a cafe bill. Most importantly, you’ll save yourself. At 65, I finally understood that life isn’t just about duty to others but also about the right to rest, lightness, and freedom from others’ expectations. And I no longer intend to open my door for those who want to turn my home into a battlefield for cleanliness and order. I’ve had enough.
