This is my side of our bedroom. I thought the light was really lovely the other day, and tried to capture it with my camera. It kind of worked. Mostly it just captured my mess, so, well, here you go. You get a photo of the bedroom in its often normal state—baby things and clothes scattered everywhere, books in mild disarray on the windowsill. And of course, the dog.
Yes, the bed is made, and yes, that’s part of the room’s normal state. A made bed is sometimes the only thing that manages to get done in a day. (And more often than not done by my Swede.)
I don’t know who these people are who have tidy, magazine-perfect homes. I’m sure they exist, though possibly only on the Internet, or at least some version of them exists, much like fiction characters kind of exist in real life due to the resemblance they bear to the author’s Uncle Frank or hairstylist or second grade teacher.
Anyway, I’m not one of those people, and I’m not even a version of one of those people. In my head I want to be one of those people, but in reality it doesn’t happen. It just doesn’t. And I’m not going to follow up that declaration with some bullshit about embracing and learning to Love the mess! Embrace the mess! You are the mess! And you are okay!
Yeah, I know I’m okay. My mess and I are just fine, thanks. We don’t like each other, and we glower at each other regularly, and that’s just how our relationship is. Like much in life, it is not perfect.
Maybe someday I will get my shit together, or at least put away, but today is not that day.