My goal on any given day is to have a clutter-free but not spotless home. I do not like creaseless pillows and glass tabletops without a bit of smudge to them. There is a level of perfection and cleanliness in a home that gives me the heebeegeebees. In places like this my awareness of myself highlights every thing about me that opposes the space I’m standing in: every active sweat gland, the loose hairs clinging to my shirt, whether or not I recently washed my jeans. I imagine I will sit on the furniture and later rise to reveal an oil slick or a smudge of color shaped exactly like me. My clammy hands will fog up the glass tabletop. A long black hair will show darker as it falls to a white rug. Gilded light fixtures and thick, luxurious curtains only make me aware of my pimples and sideburns and how much I don’t belong there.
I like a comfortable mess. Nothing sticky please. No piles of dirt. I don’t want cluttered surfaces or an unkept sofa, but I like textures and colors and evidence of human life. An overflowing basket of blankets or a forgotten coffee mug on a side table isn’t a lack of cleanliness. Instead they welcome me in. People eat here and lay here and play games on this scuffed up coffee table. I try to keep cushions in place and magazines stacked. We vacuum and fold laundry and quickly mop up spills. We also forgive a days worth of stacking things or bringing a project of many pieces to the kitchen counter and leaving it there overnight. Our house is clean. It’s not ready for a photoshoot or a visit from the Queen but it’s always ready for movie night, baking days, or a timely and undeserved afternoon nap.
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