My Messy House Says Something About Me— But Don’t Judge Me For It
Recently, an out-of-town friend reached out to me. She was traveling on business to my city for a few days. She wondered if she could stay at my place in my spare bedroom.
I froze. This is a good friend. We get along well. In the breakneck pace of mid-30s life, it’s hard to take out time to germinate solid friendships — the type where you can have mimosas well into the afternoon without mentally planning for the next looming appointment on your stacked calendar.
I didn’t know what to stay. I could invite my friend to stay with me. But that would put me in the awkward position of exposing the seedy underbelly of my life.
My home — my messy, disorganized temple. The place where I abandon all pretense of being neat and orderly.
The place where I can be me — someone who waits too long to pick up the wet umbrella off the floor. Someone who believes that the living room sofa does a great job masquerading as a purse rack.
And the snack cupboard? That’s for decorative purposes only. If I am in urgent need of sustenance, it would be easiest to grab my packaged nuts from my living room table.
