Deep in the recesses of our apartment lies a room where few have ventured–a room that sometimes pretends benignity while concealing its truly malevolent nature–a room I will now reveal to you in sorry disarray:
Ta da! I used to complain about my parents’ rule that we could not eat breakfast until we had made our beds. With middle-school (and, let’s be honest, high school) vim and vigor, I would retort to the instruction with a promise: “When I grow up I’m not even going to make my bed at all!”
I sort of kept my word. It’s not that I fail to recognize the benefits of maintaining a tidy living space. It’s just that this instance of fighting entropy seems like a true waste of time. By contrast, I can’t give up washing dishes because they’re not re-usable in their messy state. (At least not for me–bachelors, feel free to disagree.) Beds, on the other hand, work the same whether they’ve been tidied between uses or not. I will pull up the covers if company’s coming. Otherwise, don’t bet on it.
And even though I just said I’m better about doing dishes than making the bed, here’s photographic evidence that I might procrastinate in that area too.
And I might plunk overwintering plants on a board next to the balcony door for lack of a better idea of where to put them. I’ve thought about getting a table for them, but the idea of adding furniture after having completed such a satisfying pre-move purge doesn’t sit well with me. So the plants sit, well, with me staring at them, pondering a better solution.
Though it may be a while before I’m able to incorporate the plants into the decor, I hope it won’t be long before I’m operating from a permanent workstation instead of living as Ms. Portable Office. Here’s the scene from the living room the day I decided I was going to incorporate my husband’s and my still-separate files, scour grocery ads, and plan menus–all in one sitting. I finished the menus. That’s all I’m saying.
I hope the myth of my all-encompassing organizational prowess is deflating a bit in your mind. I am mortal like you. I make (and sometimes even enjoy!) my share of messes. As long as I know where things are when I need them and nothing toxic has been allowed to grow on them in the meantime, I’m content. You?