Sweeping the floor of my bedroom is one of my least favorite things to do. On the Mount Rushmore of Household Things Meg Strongly Dislikes, it is up there with Cleaning the Shower, Taking Everything Off My Dresser So I Can Dust It, and Refilling The Water So Flowers Last Longer (this is not something I actually dislike, but I never do it for some reason).
The sheer amount of dust and hair and dirt and MESS that results from me sweeping my bedroom floor literally makes my shoulders hurt. It reminds me of how long it’s been since I’ve swept, and makes me feel like I’ve been living in filth since then. It’s not true, but it certainly feels that way.
The endgame isn’t much. My room is still my room, unread books lazily sitting on the bookshelf, my file pile of mail and documents and magazines I SWEAR I’ll read one day cowering at me, sports bras hanging on the doorknobs. It is almost always a bit of a mess. And if I’m being honest, I sort of like it that way. To remind me that life is messy, and you need to accept it for the dust and dirt and darkness and light and color. My current mess:
While Sweeping My Bedroom floor is on the negative household Mount Rushmore, Washing My Sheets is on the “House Things I Love To Do Mount Rushmore,” along with Swiffering The Kitchen, Washing Enormous Pots, and Cutting Vegetables To Put Them in Mason Jars.
My current sheet situation is slightly awkward…I have a full size bed outfitted with queen size silk sheets. Judging by having to reposition them on an almost daily basis, I can tell I am quite a thrashy sleeper. It kind of ends up looking like the Cubs infield on Tuesday, minus the puddles and rain water (that would not be fun to sleep in). They’ve been broken in with green tea stains, smelly feet and sweat.
I simply haven’t gotten around to buying proper sheets. [note to self: buy proper sheets] Once I do, the silk ones will likely go into retirement, because apparently they’re supposed to be dry cleaned. I am not nearly fancy enough to have my sheets dry cleaned. Plus, putting my sheets in the washing machine, with scalding hot water and sudsy detergent, gives me a sense of balance. My floor may be filthy, but my sheets are clean as a whistle and crisp as an apple.
Sometimes, it’s easy to look at a corner of your space, sigh, and just say, “my life is in shambles.” It’s probably not. It’s just messy, just like life always is. It will become clean and clear exactly when it’s supposed to.