Love and Dirt

It saddens me to say it, but after years of seeking to come to terms with my own inadequacy, not saying it feels worse: I am, truly and perhaps incurably, messy.

I’ve struggled to clean my room (and later, my house) since I could ride a bike or tie my shoes. Part of my problem is, simply and deeply, I resist putting things away. I want to see my mess in front of me: shoes, a jar of peanut butter and a glass of milk, books and boxes and all. But I’m not done yet, I think, if I move to put something away.

I’m not willfully curating a cluttered space. Rather, I want it impulsively and instinctually—the way I crave a banana in the morning or a back scratch from my husband. I function better in my own mess, at least to a degree. I read more with three books on my lap than I do with one, write more with five tabs open than a single blank page. But five tabs quickly multiply until my computer crashes and I need to reboot it. A handful of things on the floor quickly turn into a huge pile, and as the things proliferate, putting them away comes to feel impossible, beyond my categorization and decision-making abilities. From there, the encroaching crop of things makes it hard to wipe the table or vacuum—such that, even if I’m happy to do both, I’m likely to do neither.

Clutter, though, is only part of my problem. Clutter is messy, and being messy makes it easier to be dirty. But I am also dirty.

I don’t mean that I am what some call “poorly groomed.” I bathe every one or two days, wear “shower fresh”-scented deodorant, comb my hair, brush and floss my teeth, and often chew minty gum before going out in public. I am careful not to force my comfort with being unwashed on unsuspecting passersby, and my appearance is not scandalous. If anything I look a little boring in my jeans and t-shirts and ponytail.

What I mean is that I’ve always had an