Loving a good clean mess

I love a good mess, if it’s slightly under control and things are basically clean. The house looks ok when you first walk in. You would swear the tenants were sane. It’s the mail pile and the laundry pile that’ll make you wonder.

In the broadest sense, I don’t open mail and I don’t fold laundry. That’s fair to say, if you qualify it. I don’t open most mail. I don’t fuss over the clothes. I do fold them, in half at least. I figure that as far as these things go, if the utilities haven’t been shut off and I am dressed when I go outside, my job is done.

I’ve come a long way from the days and follies of my youth. Back then, even a certified letter didn’t interest me enough to get opened. If I was at the beach, I would strip almost all down and wrap a scarf around my top. Who needs a beachbag of paraphernalia? I didn’t care what anybody thought. I was young and good-lookin’, footloose and fancy free. And then I gave birth to five happy healthy smart funny kids and we all entertained each other 24-7. These were great years. Nothing else mattered. Mail is usually clean. What are a few overdrafts and late fees compared to a happy home?

I had more than one friend who visited from afar when the kids were little, and asked politely if he or she could photograph my basement laundry room. It was completely out of control, but pleasantly so, I thought. However once when my parents were visiting and preparing to take us all out to dinner, my two year old realized she didn't have on any underpants. When my mother asked where they were, my daughter said "Oh they're down in the basement, all moldy." (Cute, but God help me, not true!)

I loved that laundry pile, and fell asleep on it more than once. Occasionally someone would just walk over top of me. Whether we were looking for a tutu or a t-shirt, we would gauge its location by what month we saw it last. "Oh you wore that over Halloween, it's probably about twelve inches deep over there." Not a problem. The stuff was clean, just maybe not all-the-way folded. The kids always looked great to me. I never heard any complaints. You have to let some things go.

Now in my dotage I am slightly less cavalier, though still no good at laundry and the mail. I check to see if my socks match. I look in the mirror while I apply lipstick. I open certified mail. I'm just more grown up. I don’t nurse babies and change diapers while I drive. And I don’t walk out the door emptyhanded and hitchhike cross-country on the spur of the moment, as I did a few times pre-babies.

But I am still a renegade. I like to see the flashing eyes of other happy renegades, even though they can’t always see me, since I have reached the age of glorious invisibility. And I like to cheer up the unhappy ones. Give me a mother who is ashamed of a messy house and I can make her feel good about it in about two seconds. And even if it’s messy after the kids are grown, so what? As we all know, old habits die hard. I like to see clutter and to brush aside some clothes or papers as I sit down in someone’s house. So comforting! But the big piles? Shove it all in a garbage bag and forget about it, that’s my theory. Put the bag in a closet and learn to sift through quickly on an emergency basis. Have faith that things will rise to the fore when they really must. Enjoy.