While I must confess that my life–creative and physical–is always in a sort of slight disarray, heavily afflicted by procrastination (I’m supposed to be doing laundry right now) –there is nothing better than that apres-cleaning feeling. Look at me! I’ve put away my dishes. My electronics are Swiffered and have been rendered dustless. My clothes, sheets and towels are laundry-fresh. My life is beautiful! I’m in control! I can take on the world!
Sigh. If only. I live alone, and if you cruelly “drop in” on me (in which case, figure I have 30 seconds to reasonably sort my apartment, hide my dirty playthings, dirty lingerie, dirty trash, and chuck those dirty dishes into the dirty sink) you’ll discover my somewhat chaotic natural state of living. Before company, especially anticipated male visitors, I try to spend the day prior putting things in order…but that almost never happens. I wind up doing odd tasks completely unrelated to housekeeping, like writing this for instance. My mom used to tell me that creative people can never be fully organized because there’s just too much activity going on in our heads. Maybe…that and I’m forgetful. I leave lights on then I’m not in the room (for mucho kilowatt hours, want my electricity bill? Also prefer a balmy 75 in winter and frosty AC in summer) , forget where I put things…and have we talked about procrastination yet?
I’m waiting helplessly for the perfect man to enter my life so I can finally have a working smoke detector and over-sink light (my landlord, apparently isn’t that man, I’ve discovered, a few pleading machine messages later). Not that I couldn’t do it, but I certainly couldn’t do it with alacrity and poise, that’s for sure. When my toilet became clogged a few months back, I remember poring at EHow.com for an unreasonable amount of time, then frantically calling a reliable ex-boyfriend for advice…I managed to come out triumphant in the end.
While there’s no feeling more impervious and domestically satisfying than having a tidy house, there’s none more temporary. I’m constantly striving, never achieving. My apartment, and yes–my life–are going to always be in some state of crisis.
Well, off to do the laundry…with my newfound sense of bizarre urgency.