I may have pointed out that I need a twelve-step program for being such a slob. If I have, it’s worth reminding myself of the process to turn the unwanted behaviors away.
I’ve always been a slob. I could relate to the Peanuts Cartoon character Pigpen; everywhere Pigpen went, a cloud of dirt followed him.
I’ve also probably mentioned who my mom and I had a perfect balanced relationship. I would trash my room and my mom would clean it up while I was at school. Actually, trashing may be too harsh of a word; I just didn’t put anything away. I’m guilty of not putting things away. This really gets Sylvia going, and that’s when I realize I need to work those steps.
How much of my being a slob is connected to the fact that my mom didn’t make be responsible and enabled me to carry on. I’d like to blame the fact that I wasn’t taught how to clean. It was just easier for my mom to do everything. She had gotten tired of fighting battles. As a kid, before she died, I had come to the conclusion that her life hadn’t turned out like she planned. I had the impression that she wanted to go back to school, to do what I’m not sure. She got robbed of the second half of her life.
That’s how I’ve been viewing my recent fifty-fifth birthday. Now that halftime is over, it’s time to get on with life, and I’ve got a lot of making up to do for all the years in the first half I didn’t even bother to show up.
The only two times a house I’ve been living in is immaculate are the first and last day of my residency. When Sylvia and I moved into the dome, which is around twelve, thirteen, or so years ago, Everything but the piano were brand new. The house had never been lived in.
And has it been lived in. Because we had been living in such tight quarters, having one person over maxed out the capacity. To go from eight hundred square feet to roughly three thousand square feet is so freeing,
Downsizing always helps me pitch things that I would normally fight tooth and nail over. When I moved to Eugene from Boston, I started my new quest with what could fit in the car. Granted it was a Plymouth. Plymouth Volarie. Don’t go singing that song now…
I’m using our European trip as a metaphor for my need to downsize. I’ve been holding onto stuff for way too long. The issue that I am tackling is that I have too much stuff to be put away; either there’s not been a place created or I already have enough of those things like elastic bands, twist ties, expired coupons.
Luca’s going to flip when she drives down from Portland one of these days and finds not a nary of an expired coupon.
A lot of my problem is the lack of the physical ability to do much of anything. Vacuuming and my back do not getting along, and my back is always getting the last word in. I’m hoping that now that I’ve returned to my favorite pain specialist, a physiatrist, has returned, we can find some pain relief for me. And now that I’m changing my primary physician, and getting out of the OH MY God world where doctors can take as much time as needed with their patients. I am determined to not be old yet; it doesn’t really help when the students I work with usually respond with, “You don’t look that old” when I tell them of my 55 year status. That old. All our attitudes and ideas of what is old is changing. After seven seven years, my dad died, but was awarded the “he lived a good long life.” He did live a good life, but long isn’t a qualifier.
If I can keep my physical body in good shape where I’m still sound mind and body, though most of my family and many friends will wonder I’ve been hiding the sound mind, I’d enjoy seeing a hundred. Since my osteoporosis makes my bones the age of someone who is twenty years older than I, the chronological aging makes me age more like a dog than a human being.
Now, here’s a challenge for myself. Write a blog every day for the next forty-five years. That would be a lot of words. The gauntlet has been thrown down.