Disheveled

There’s one thing I’ve been noticing lately as I glance about my room: it’s not the same princess it used to be. There are piles of papers and bills and Last Chance Offers! stacked haphazardly on my dresser, an old receiver that doesn’t work. My laundry, clean in the basket, dirty on the floor is neglected or hanging on for dear life from the hamper into which I absentmindedly threw it like a penalty shot from the free throw line. (I don't even know what that means? Sports analogies?) There are books and magazines in various states of completion. What DID happen to Jennifer Garner’s slaughtered family, and how can I boost my beauty from the inside out? Dr. Oz has a quiz. A dictionary, a thesaurus, self-help books, opened and littered and staring. Used Kleenexes, a box of hundreds upon hundreds of photos, a hat, some scrapbooking supplies, two boxes of clothes, one summer, one skinny; a shoe box of cards, lists, budgets, an old 35mm camera, journals, purses, pillows, headphones, a name badge from Statoil, operating instructions for the vacuum and a table with meditation stuff on it. Stones and reminders and a box of affirmations. Candles, my vision board, my horoscope for 2008. Love notes to myself.

It is a room with personality, well-lived in. To me, it is the sign of a happy, full life, well-lived. But one thing is for sure: no man has set foot in it for quite some time. And it shows. That room used to be spotless. Pristine, even. A place for everything and everything in its place. What image was I trying to project? Ah, well that I had my shit together. Anyone who is this neat and tidy must have her shit together. Which of course means that any man who dared enter would not live to regret his choice.

I could choose to look at it as sad: that room used to be a showcase, a stage of sultry adventures. And now it’s a little like a sad mistress past-her-prime. It could do with a bit of a dust-off. So could my sex life. But meh. On the other hand, it makes me chuckle, having reclaimed a room that is more me than it ever has been. I’m not hiding anymore. And any man who is worthy enough to be invited in is just going to have to take it—-and me—-as it is. Yes, I’m well put-together. And sometimes I’m not. Sometimes I’m messy and disorganized and beautifully cluttered.

.