I walk into the bedroom and am greeted by an unmade bed. I’ve just returned from dropping the kids off at school, after giving them breakfast and packing the husband’s lunch dabba.

I take a deep breath, swallow my irritation and proceed to make the bed.

Inside my head, though, a monologue begins: “365 times. That’s how many times a year I make the bed. That’s how many times a year, he doesn’t.”

I smooth the covers, arrange the decorative but pointless cushions on it, and then walk into my daughter’s room. I’m confronted by another unmade bed. Not just a messy bed, but folded clothes that weren’t put away, a towel that’s damp because it wasn’t aired out, toothpaste stains in the sink and an array of hair clips strewn about her highness’ bathroom.

The irritable inside voice jumps back in: “I have so many better things to do.”

Better things. That’s what the world has taught us to believe. Some jobs have been cast as worthy of our time. And others as plain menial. We derive value – and maybe even our identity – from one category. We see the other set of jobs as somehow demeaning to our worth.

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