I’m a lousy housekeeper. Always have been. When I was a teenager my bedroom was always knee deep with an assortment of clothing, the bed was never made, the top of the bureau was littered with stuff. I’m not sure why I am this way. My mother kept a very tidy house. Then again, she had four helpers.
My sister’s room, across the hall from mine, was always clean and organized. Her curtains matched the bedspread and the bedspread matched the blue wall-to-wall carpeting, which she purchased with her own money. On schooldays, she got up an hour earlier than me in order to have the one bathroom to herself. She left for school looking like a fashion model; cute clothes, perfect makeup and clean, shiny, styled hair.
I preferred to sleep as late as possible and then rush around, disorganized, disoriented and dissheveled. Thirty years later, things haven’t changed much. Although I have figured out how to start my day in a more relaxed way, my house sometimes looks alot like my bedroom did way back when. My house is constipated. Clutter has taken over. Too much stuff has come in and not enough has gone out. Time to flush! Less is more! I like the motel room look, austere, only the essentials, but what fun is life without all the colorful stuff we attract along the way?