Organization scares me. No, that’s the wrong word. Organization intimidates me. In the way a math final might intimidate someone who really didn’t study or a foreign language would someone visiting the origin country for the first time. Organization is a ticking time bomb of frustration and failure for me. And I’ve accepted that.
Over the years I’ve come to terms with my organized chaos, accepted it even. I am a disaster. A disaster who manages to survive, pay her bills, keep her condo from being infested by God knows what, keep clean clothes, keep all important documents in order and where they should be, and ensure my child is always prepared and well-equipped for day care.
But brush my hair in the morning? Well now, that’s asking a bit too much.
I am chaotic. I know this. It’s taken me many years to accept it, but now I’ve full embraced it. I’m a tornado of a girl. Emotionally, physically, mentally. I will bowl you over in all aspects. If you can accept that, then perhaps we can be friends. If not, batten down the hatches as I pass through and you’ll be just fine.
My mess makes me who I am.
My fashion sense only goes as far as a mannequin tells me (or friends via frantic iPhone photos of myself in the mirror with various outfit combos that usually get rejected as quickly as I’ve sent them). Accessories are foreign objects, and while I own a few they are repeated often as venturing beyond them would surely result in an epic disaster of crisis proportions.
My emotions are as wild as my unbrushed hair. That’s a major part of my chaos, my disaster.
I can’t control them. I think I used to be able to. Let me put this into perspective for you.
In my marriage, and subsequent relationship, I spent years (probably a good decade) tying my hair back in a ponytail when it wasn’t brushed out accordingly and “fixed.” If I didn’t have time to make it look “normal” I tied it back. My ex at the time used to complain when I wore my hair in a ponytail, stating I was taking the easy way out to make it look OK, that I should take more time to make myself look good, to make myself look decent.
Truth was, I was tying back the real me.
Ask anyone who sees me on a regular basis now: I rarely tie my hair back. Rats nest or not, it’s out. It’s me. It’s my chaos. It’s a representation of me accepting who I am and how I am instead of trying to tie it back and keep it hidden and proper. Sure, I’ll tie it back occasionally, but that’s more to keep it from my eyes or because it’s too hot or I’m running … I’m no longer ashamed of the chaos, the disaster. In fact, I love it.
Just as I let my hair be wild and free now, so too are my emotions. Saying how I feel and when I feel it is a huge part of me now. Why should I try and brush my emotions straight and proper if that’s not what they were meant to be in the first place? That might seem a bit “deep,” but you get what I mean.
I’m a somewhat organized chaos. I’ve accepted that. Finding someone else who accepts that is going to be the challenge. My condo is a liveable mess. A comfortable collision of random piles and clean surfaces. Laundry is always in various stages of “being done,” the kitchen is always half clean, and one day (I swear, one day) I will take out my recycling. I will.
Life isn’t meant to be straight-lace and proper. Where’s the fun in that? I’m not saying to go the complete opposite, but what I am saying is to be comfortable in your imperfections. Be comfortable in your chaos.