Mess is more

Let me set the scene: a dimly-lit bedroom; piles of loose papers, odd shoes and open books scattered across the floor; an assortment of mugs, toiletry bottles, make-up and jewellery littering the surface of something that once resembled a table; window-sills covered in pictures, candles, all kinds of personal mementos and knick-knacks; clothes piled precariously upon a swivel-chair; a bed strewn with cushions and blankets. All amongst which a not-so-tidy girl sleeps.

Waking up one cold Sunday morning, blinking in the morning sunlight, my dishevelled room slowly came into focus. As the bleary mirage became a solid reality before me, a bizarre incident from the previous week suddenly returned.

Now, the words ‘organised’ and ‘together’ are not adjectives that I would have thought could ever be used to describe me. Ever. So imagine my shock when, about a week ago, someone used those exact words in the same sentence as my name. I had not dreamt it, I was sure.

Just like in a cheesy film, their words echoed within my (admittedly hung-over) head. They had obviously never seen the Aladdin’s-cave-meets-jumble-sale that I woke up in that morning. I had no idea where on earth this conception could have come from. It seems that I had been a master of deception without my even knowing it.

Yet as I sat in a heap of sheets, feeling increasingly depressed by my surroundings, I felt a kind of fondness for the mythical idea of a tidy me. “After all,” I reasoned, “I do own a Filofax, and write endless to-do list, that I sometimes even remember to look at. What’s to say that I can’t be an organised person?”

Despite the niggling voice in my head that told me it would be ultimately futile, I set out on a manic mission to de-clutter my life. Well, my immensely over-stuffed bedroom, at least. Don’t let the films fool you, kids, it took a lot more than a click of the fingers to clear that lot up….

Three hours, two large black bin bags, and a strong coffee later, my boudoir was worthy of a show home. There was still a lot of stuff, for I will never be a minimalist, but nothing was out of place. In my fastidious fury I had even alphabetised my books. My mind felt less cluttered already, and a wonderful sense of achievement, calm, and clarity engulfed me.

My mind felt less cluttered already, and a wonderful sense of achievement, calm, and clarity engulfed me.

And yet, I could not help but feel a tinge of sadness. For just like a birthday, no matter how happy you are, an increasing sense of sorrow emerges as the day wears on and you begin to realise that it cannot last. Then, just as momentarily, you remember that there is a reason it comes only once a year.

Within a day I began to realise the implications of my big tidy-up. The minute I touched anything in my room, the illusion was shattered.

It really was the strangest thing. Just as I wallowed in my new, meticulous glory, the urge to rebel descended upon me: I felt compelled to make a mess. You see, as soon as I had created my masterpiece, I could not shake the image of the fifties housewife from my mind. Did I really want to become a slave to my surroundings? Did I hell!

So I disheveled my magazines slightly, laid out all my cosmetics, and de-alphabetised the books. Nothing major, but it was enough. The rebel within me was sated, without offending my inner-housewife too much. I was balanced finally.

(Here I feel I must state that dirtiness and messiness are two very different things. I am not talking about fundamental living conditions that pose health hazards. Cleanliness is godliness, after all. Indeed, this is a purely aesthetic matter.)

Is it so bad that I have a tendency to hoard things? Much as I wish that I was organised and had designated a place for everything I own, I have come to terms with the fact that wherever I go, a certain amount of chaos will always follow. I am the human equivalent of what would result if a bulldozer bred with a hamster, and I'm OK with that.

My mum has always said that life is messy. In hindsight I suppose that explains a lot about me. We all have our ways of dealing with life, some just happen to go about it a bit less methodically than others (and by this I mean amid a constant whirlwind of stuff). And that’s just fine.

Besides, it could be a lot worse: I’m not the only one (a fact that my roommate Steph is living proof of). The world should be thankful that we do not share a room. I suspect that everyone has secret mess in some shape or form. Everyone has seen that episode of Friends when Monica’s is discovered. Who says it's fiction?

So I suppose with organisation, as with everything else, it's all about a happy medium. Whilst we can’t change who we are, we can always try to iron out our metaphorical creases, and spruce up our edges, without having to re-decorate the whole house.

Or something along those lines anyway. Oh why can't everything be summed up so neatly?

Add Comment

You must log in to submit a comment.