This week I heard, yet again, “Your life would be better if you were more organized.”
This is undoubtedly true.
But sometimes I wonder if my disorganization is not merely a bad habit but an actual genetic feature—like my brown eyes and my SUV hips.
There’s only so much you can do with genetics. Sure there’s exercise and cosmetic surgery, but do people get personality lifts? I suppose they call that counseling. And, yes, I’ve been told I need that too.
Apparently, I should be spending more time in the self-help section at Barnes and Noble and less time in fantasy.
But I’m not the only one out there. This guy, for instance, probably knows what it’s like in my loosy goosy noggin.
I seem to be cursed, ahem, blessed, with lots of very organized friends. They do things like plan meals a month in advance, put their kids to bed at 7 o’clock every night, and scrapbook.
My life would be better if I did all those things. But just as I don’t have the genes to be a figure skater, nature, it seems, also left out the domestic management skills.
Is there anyone else out there like me? Do you feel like a failure because you don’t know what you’re having for dinner next Thursday night? Will your sons’ future wives look at you in disgust when you don’t hand over eighteen color-coded, cloth-bound, perfectly-journaled memory books at the rehearsal dinner?
Am I all alone here?
Or, is there room for women like me, who—even if they did know what was for dinner a week from yesterday—would decided at 5 pm Thursday evening that beef stroganoff sounds yucky and chicken quesadillas would be much better?
Maybe you’ve thought about joining a support group for deviant women who don’t find fulfillment in cropping photos. NOT that there’s anything wrong with scrapbooking. Believe me, if I could make my hips smaller and my picture memories neater, I WOULD!
I guess I’m just looking for some sisterhood here. Can I get an ‘amen?’ Someone in the back, would you raise your hand and confess along with me that your kids were up until 9 last night on a SCHOOL night?
Or you can just leave me all alone, up in the front, singing “Just As I Am” at the top of my lungs. It’s okay. I’ll lead the revolution. But if you ever want to share your fall from the pantheon of domestic goddesses, shoot on over to my blog and leave an anonymous comment.
“Today I wore two different shoes and didn’t notice until 2 o’clock.”
“For dinner we had leftover mac n’ cheese, a can of fruit cocktail, and half a bag of gummy worms.’
“I forgot my camera and didn’t take one picture at my kindergartner’s play. And instead of staring through a lens, I actually got to watch my son be Carl the Cart-wheeling Carrot.”
Go ahead, let me hear it!
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