The concept of order and being orderly has never really been one I could fully grasp. These days it’s moved from arms reach to bum fuck nowhere. It gone. Bye, Felicia.
I remember growing up my mom would always harp on me to clean and organize. Most teenagers struggle with that concept, or so I like to tell myself. Moving onto college that mess came with me. It’s not that I’m dirty, or that I was dirty, but I’m messy. I’ve gotten a lot better at keeping up with it since living with Tom and growing into my adulthood. What’s interesting to me, though, is that I still consider myself extremely unorganized not only in thought but just in almost ever facet and yet I still manage to make everything work.
When I go places and see a stack of papers or business cards, I find myself scratching an itch to straighten them out. But at home, I just throw shit everywhere. Maybe it’s a comfort thing, or maybe it’s knowing that no one is really going to see this mess of mine… ours… unless I invite them into it.
There was a solid month I was doing dishes everyday and I was making some pretty damn good progress on keeping up with it. Now that we have Elsie, I’ve hit a little bump in the road with that. Our bedroom has *clean* clothes on the bed, on the floor, in the closet, simply because I’m too lazy, tired and just don’t care to fold them or put them away. Please baby jebus, help me to not teach our child to live this way. I really hope that I can continue to be cognizant of this flaw and work at being better at it.
Just yesterday I finally cleaned off my desk… kind of. At least there aren’t papers eeeevverrryyywhere. There’s SOME sort of order to it, again. I suppose this is motherhood mixed in with womanhood and adulthood. Might as well put my big girl panties on and man the fuck up.
Wrapping up some projects today and desperately needing, and wanting, to work on my own personal shit. Clients come first, though. Game on, Friday. Game on.