The reason

I’m kinda antsy about people coming into my house. Like I have this nice idea of myself some time in the future just welcoming all of these friends new and old into my beautiful, inviting, spacious home and generously sharing my bounty with them all in whichever way is appropriate. But, truth is, right now, if almost any of them turned up at my door today they’d be greeted with a deer-in-highlights expression and a shaky oh, er, do you want to come in?

Why? Because my house is a reflection of myself and that self is barely bridled chaos. And I spend most of my leisure time at my desk in my bedroom, so unless I have a specific reason to go look at it, I don’t even notice how dishevelled my living room is. Don’t get me started on the kitchen that I pathologically refuse to engage with. I live in fear of having to invite someone into it and suddenly being faced with untold pandemonium.

I’d liken it to getting caught with my pants down, but – fun fact – I recently learned I’m nowhere near as embarrassed by that as someone coming into my unprepared home.

So, why can’t I just be comfortable with the fact that I’m a mess and my house is a mess? Well, I’ve figured out at least one pretty compelling reason. The other day my mother visited and when she came into the partially tidied living room she said dramatically “woah, it’s pretty tidy in here, you feeling alright?”, which is completely standard fare – she is guaranteed to either dismay that I haven’t tidied enough or feign concern for my health if I have. It’s very witty. But then it was like, for the first time in her life, she heard what she was saying and said “do I sound like grandma?”, and I said “no, you just sound like you.”

And it was then we both realised she’s the reason I don’t like having people in my house.

I’m exaggerating. But, yeah, kind of.

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