I feel like I could use a shovel to get to the bottom of the piles on my desk.
I’m thinking it’s all my mother’s fault.
When I was in high school and college, I literally waded through all the clothes on the floor of my bedroom to get from the doorway to my bed. It wasn’t dirt covering everything, just things covering everything — piles of papers, mail, books, clothes, shoes. My now ex-husband, a neat freak, was appalled when he first saw my room at college. The mess was off-putting, he told me later (though not enough of a deterrant to move on to the new girlfriend).
While married to him, I cleaned up my act quite a bit especially in shared living areas (it wasn’t worth fighting about). But “my” spaces have always tended towards messy piles. I know where stuff on my desk is, but it’s usually in the middle of a pile. I have piles of loose scrapbooking supplies on a table in the basement. I have piles of recipes in a cupboard in my kitchen (my new husband refers to this pile as my “nest”); when I need to find a particular recipe, I have to sort through the pile. My shoes are not nicely lined up in a row — they’re in a pile in the bottom of the entryway closet.
Right now, my office (“my” space) has papers all over the floors, stamps and craft paper in piles lining the walls, piles of papers that need to be filed, and literally three inches of paper covering every square inch around the computer on my desk. “Where’s my calculator/cell phone/coffee cup? I know it’s under here somewhere!”
So, I’m wondering, why is my natural state — the condition in which I’m most comfortable — one of being surrounded by piles?
I think it all goes back to my mother. Her womb, actually.
She’s a small woman — about 5-foot-3.
I was the first baby to inhabit that petite womb, and I was a big baby to boot, weighing in at 9 pounds, 8 ounces and measuring 22.5 inches long. That’s more than 2 inches longer than the average baby.
So I’m thinking I was pretty crowded during my in utero experience, and I must have gotten pretty comfortable being surrounded by “stuff.” So my piles now give must be giving me motherly comfort, I think.
How’s that for an excuse for piggishness?