Learning to Live With the Mess
There are times in my life when I am happy. Content. Okay with the natural ebb and flow of things and the inherent flotsam and jetsam. I find beauty in it, even, in apple cores and a sticky knife resting lazily on the kitchen counter…in laundry hanging to dry in the window, or draped over a chair…the mundane messiness of life glides by me, as I swim strongly towards bigger and bolder goals.
Other times…I am consumed by the details, enervated by the ephemera, unhinged by an unmade bed or pile of clothes on the floor or (let’s be honest) Chad’s side of the closet.
But, also, I’m bothered by the feeling that the loose ends won’t ever come together. That perfection will always be out of my reach, and I see the mess around me as a reflection of my inner failings and turmoil, my inability to get. it. together.
(“You’re 27 now,” I tell myself, as though there is any other timeline for figuring things out than as you’re able).
But I want to let go. I WANT TO LET GO!!! I want to shout it, and not care if I’m too loud, not care if I eat cereal for dinner, not worry about my long-suffering thighs, not avoid doing things (like writing, or blogging, or organizing my workspace) because I’m intimidated by my own standard of cold, hard perfection. To the point of paralysis.
No more, I say! Good day to you, sir! I’m off to eat sushi, having accomplished a fair amount of things, knowing that there’s more to do later, and tomorrow, and the next day, and that I’ll do it just like that. One step at a time.
As I’m able.
Sometimes I feel the same. I get frustrated with myself. Feeling as if I haven’t accomplished what I’m meant to accomplish for my age. I’m 26 and I feel like I’m so lost in all of this. That my life is running out and I have to do what is expected of a woman of my age. But then I realized that when you think like that you don’t enjoy life. Life hasn’t have meaning to you. You live for others not for yourself. So I’m happy you learned to live with the mess. Enjoy it. You only live once.
If it does anything for you, 26 was a good year for me. The year I stopped waiting for magic to happen to me and started making it happen for myself. The year I decided that I was ready to act my age, exactly–no older, no younger. I think we get so hung up on how we’re supposed to act, because of age or anything else, instead of acting as we please. So thank you; I agree.