I got prepared for my work day the same way I always do.
A nice shower followed by drying off with a towel that hasn’t been washed in a questionable amount of time. Dug through clean clothes that are either stuffed in a laundry basket, in a pile on the dryer, sitting on the unused side of my bed, or hung up but somehow still wrinkled. Ironed said clothes because I’m not a savage.
Strolled downstairs, kicking aside some of my son’s toys at the foot of the steps that I neglected to pick up the night before. Went to make some coffee, which involved cleaning my pot, filter, and, of course, a mug because all mine were dirty and sitting in a dishwasher that should’ve been ran yesterday.
Strolled over to a desk covered in papers and other random bullshit (or as I call it, a “home office”) and settled into my chair. Maybe some of this seemed familiar to you. If so you, just like me, are a fucking slob.
I didn’t choose this life, it chose me. At least that’s my excuse, because part of slob life is having excuses. You’re not going to put those clothes away because you’re just going to wear them soon. Can’t vacuum that carpet today because you’re doing that thing that’ll drag dirt in tomorrow. Clean the shower? Are you kidding, I clean myself in there, the shower cleans itself.
Maybe I’m giving you a poor impression; I don’t live in a nuclear wasteland. I clean for company and keep it livable. But my longtime hope that I’d become an organized neat-freak has passed me like a fart in the wind. I spent my formative years in a room where I scattered clothes everywhere, carrying a backpack to school full of loose paper, and driving a car whose inside looked like the living space of a blind family of four.
I always told myself “When you’re an adult you’ll be clean and neat.” My parents kept things fairly ship-shape; it was assumed by me that grown-ups were just cleaner people. During college, well no one is clean in college right? Our kitchen always looked like if a grade-school food fight happened every day and I once walked out of my shoe because it stuck to the floor. But that’s to be expected; I’d be neat and tidy as a post-grad.
No such luck. As I detailed above I’ve still got the organizational skills equivalent of that stoner teenager who wears the same flannel three days in a row. Now while I pride myself on always being clean (two shower a day guy over here) and not dressing like shit, everything else in my life is subject to zero established guidelines. I’m not proud of it; I expected better of myself by now.
Not going to lie, I cringe a bit when someone enters my passenger seat and I’m shoveling random shit in the back like I’m trying to keep a boat afloat. There’s some regret when a friend comes over to hang out and I have to say multiple times, “Oh just move that to the side” or “Yeah I’m actually gonna vacuum and sweep this weekend.” While I had imagined I’d grow into a level of tidiness that made my adult living space look as spotless as Patrick Bateman’s apartment, albeit with way less murder, I’ve instead continued by the path of slobbery.
But I’m here today to come to peace with that. You know what, I know where everything is in my house and on my desk, and that’s good enough for me. Where’s that pair of shorts I need? Definitely under the smaller pile on my bed. That loose piece of paper I need to scan to the office? I know the exact placement that it lies in over in the disorganized pile at the corner of my desk.
My house would make Martha Stewart a little uncomfortable, but as long as it’s not getting CPS knocking at my door, a little dust never killed anyone. Today I actually did vacuum and sweep, and surprise – didn’t even look that different. Slob life is easier, and slob life is me. .
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