Tuesday, May 19, 2015


I was struck by a cleaning frenzy earlier today when the realtor of my apartment building called and asked if she could show another person my apartment, saying that the apartment that they are renting is going to be identical to mine but needs to undergo some renovations first. I obliged, thinking it would be no big deal, but my overactive, self-judging mind took over, and I felt like I needed to clean everything. I essentially saw this visit as a time for total strangers to judge me, and I started stressing out about it.

"The trash stinks and really needs taken out."

"The ring around the tub is unsightly."

"There's piles of opened but unfiled mail everywhere."

"The closet. Is. A. Hot. Mess."

And while I was busy wandering what chaos to tackle first, I also realized something: no place is loved unless it's lived in, and I don't necessarily want to live in a place that is always picture perfect because I would spend all my time trying to maintain that quality. So I tried to squash the images of other people's staged homes, and while I did do some picking up (that I've really been meaning to do anyway), I didn't do a deep cleaning of the place that a stranger would be in for maybe ten minutes.

And the funny thing was, the woman raved about the space. Hot mess closet and all.

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