December 27, 2012
Right before I started this post, I caught myself worrying about dust.
Yes, dust. The stuff I convince myself nobody else has in their house because they keep up with it.
Here I am, off work until the day after New Year’s, with tons of time to do all kinds of neat stuff, and I’m worrying about freakin’ dust. That’s pathological. No, worse than pathological, it’s pitiful.
I mean, what is wrong with me?
Dust didn’t bother me when I was scrambling to get ready for work last week. It didn’t permeate my thoughts while I shuffled paperwork and fielded phone calls. It didn’t come with me to the grocery store, or settle on my shoulders like a fine gray mist while I was paying bills or falling into an exhausted sleep.
But now that I have unlimited hours to work on my book, play with my plants, rearrange my crystals, read, or just kick back and do nothing, something in me wants to worry about the dust on the bookshelves, between the knickknacks, on the stairs. If somebody came to my house, says this nit-picky little “something”, they’d get all smug and superior and think I’m a slob.
Let’s take that last sentence apart.
“Somebody”. The only people who would ever be allowed to set foot in my house are people who were invited, by me. In no universe would I invite smug and/or superior people to my house. Why am I worrying about something that ain’t never gonna happen?
“My house”. Where I come to rejuvenate from time spent in The World Out There. The place where I pull up the drawbridge, drop the shields and let my inner happy little lunatic out to play. My own precious sanctuary where things like bras, shoes, and what other people think of me do not exist. In other words—my house, where I decide what’s important.
“Slob”. I am a slob. I live in a whirlwind of books-plants-notebooks-crystals-cats-pictures-CDs. Coats tend to live on the backs of chairs. Scarves roost on the frames of pictures and mirrors. Multiple pairs of shoes reside under my computer desk, which is where I kick them off without thinking when I’m writing. When the hoofware population becomes too dense, I cull out the non-seasonal ones. (Example: it’s late December; today multiple pairs of summer sandals have finally been relegated to storage.) It’s how I roll, and it works for me.
Back to the dust: I’ve decided the problem is all in my mind.
Effective immediately, I’m evicting those imaginary smug-and-superior types.
Instead, I’m going to imagine my character Rick (better known as Ricochet) has escaped from Old Wolves. He’s a whirlwind of a young man with long white-blonde hair, outer-space eyes and a very impressive tattoo. He’ll bound into the house like Tigger and hug everybody in sight. If he sees dust on a table he’ll swoop down on it and exclaim, “Dude! Can we snort it?” Then he’ll smile, draw a heart in the dust and write “I love you” inside it.
And he’ll really, really mean it.