Well, in my defense, slob may be too strong a word. . .
No, it’s definitely the right one. Hello, my name is Heather, and I am a slob.
First step is admitting, right?
I woke up this morning feeling something strange in my back. Turns out it was a sock, all balled up and nestled right smack dab between my shoulder blades. It wasn’t even my sock! I was so confused. What did I do last night?! I quickly re-traced the event of the evening. It all came flooding back to me.
There was a nip in the cold November air, and my feet had turned to ice cubes. I considered putting on socks, but quickly giggled and shook my head at the idea of being able to find socks. No, my feet would just have to remain in this frozen state until the thaw in spring. My intuitive, caring husband approached me, generously offering me a pair of his own socks (or perhaps it was due to my shivering, repeated brrrrrrrr’s, and moaning about how cold my feet were). Either way, I refused. No, his socks are scratchy and ill-fitting. The heel goes halfway up my calf, and the elastic-ey band at the top reaches all the way to my knee crease, cutting off the circulation in the tender spot. No sir, I’d much rather have cold feet than have the bottom portion of my legs grow numb, or worse (gasp!) fall off completely like some rubber-banded dogs tail or testes. He lovingly insisted, and I put the socks on. It really wasn’t so bad.
But how did they end up beneath my back?
That is what I don’t understand.
How do airplanes fly? How does TV work? How do coffee beans turn into liquid coffee? How does our planet stay suspended in the galaxy? These are all questions that will never be answered and we must just learn to accept. Just like my socks.
And the socks are still there. Why, you ask? Because, as I mentioned before, I am a slob.
I am working on it though. I do not like being a slob. I wash the dishes after dinner (most nights), I keep the laundry washed (and re-washed after it develops that unmistakable mildew-ey smell in the washing machine overnight), and I clean out the fridge (when I start to smell something funky and ripe). I do these things. But not because they come naturally, but because I force myself to, and because I start to hate my disgusting self if I don’t.
Those who know me well, can attest to my slovenly ways. The rest of people might have a different idea. This is my fault. I am not only a slob, but a liar. A lying slob. Yes, it’s true, social media has allowed me to paint an inaccurate picture of who I am and the sort of household I appear to keep. Instagram, in particular, has really enabled me to do this.
For instance, here is my Instagram dining room table:
quaint, inviting, cozy, right? Looks like the kind of place to sit and read Deepak Chopra while eating kale chips and sipping green tea with Stevia in the raw.
Here is my real life kitchen table:
It may not look horrible, but that jewelry stuff and glue gun have been there for three weeks. And, I started sanding the table two months ago. . . but only did the middle (sanding paint is HARD). It will be awesome, someday.
Next up, my Instagram living room:
Again with the quaint and cozy. Cottage living style–only missing a pair of slippers, some kids dressed in nautical-type outfits playing some educational board game made from re-claimed wood pieces, and a well behaved golden retriever lazily looking on from the corner (why is there no dog hair if the damn thing is in the house!?)
Here is how my real living room looks right now (I would like to add that I am prepping for a big show and I did not put the mattress pad there, that was the hubby’s doing).
Obviously, no room for kids. Okay, MOM?! DO YOU HEAR ME!?? NO ROOM FOR KIDS!
Now, onto my Instagram studio:
So fresh, so clean–a dream to create in. Organized and uniform, a place for everything and everything in its place. Ideas flow freely, and come to fruition in the openness and feng-shui-ness of this space. Creative processes only ceasing momentarily throughout the day for a brief meditation, which in turn increases productivity.
Not so free-flowing–unless you consider the beads freely flowing around the wood floor as I inadvertently knock them off the desk. Or the free flow of curse words that escapes my lips as I stub my toe (again) on the deadly latch of Samsonite suitcase blocking the doorway. Then yes, it is definitely a “flowing” space.
And last, but certainly not least, the final room of the Instagram tour, the bedroom: (AKA, where the magic happens)
Simple, romantic, ethereal. Crisp mossy green with touches of velvet, brocade, and lace. A place where one can go to escape, an oasis. A place where sweet nothings are whispered into anxious earlobes, and pillow talk abounds.
My real bedroom:
Not so sexy. A place where I fall asleep with my laptop–while he snores. A place where I lay awake for the first three hours and he lays awake for the second three–until we are finally both sleeping in unison, as one, only to be jolted awake by the horrific beeping of the alarm. A place from which we groggily mutter how we are going to bed early that night, something that we say every morning and never actually do. Yes, this is that place.
And here it is folks, the thing which led to this entire confession. The sock.
I will never know how it got there, I can only be thankful that it did. This single article of clothing has led me to be honest with you all, and more importantly, myself. Thank you sock, for all you have shown me. Hello, my name is Heather, and I am a slob.
( But, I am no longer a lying one).