Almost exactly three weeks from now, I’m going to turn 30 years old. From what I’ve heard, turning 30 can cause the aging party a bit of psychic distress. Like the kind that makes a person take stock of her life and then put her head between her knees to stave off the dizzies.
For a while, I thought I would rise above it. In my mind, I was beyond peer pressure, like that boring kid in the After School Special knock-off who wasn’t going to ruin my diving career like Scott Baio did once he discovered fast girls, beer, and drinking and driving.
And, then, at 3am Tuesday morning, I found myself huddled in a ball in the dark, sobbing myself to sleep because I haven’t done all the things that I thought I would do by 30. You know, according to a list I came up with when I was 12.
I was also upset because I decided that don’t have a good storage solution for my large suitcase.
While I managed to calm myself down and get some sleep, that whole suitcase issue stuck with me. And then it snowballed into a whole bunch of other self-criticisms of my decor, organization, and, as Martha Stewart would say, general homekeeping*.
So, I’ve started to take action. This morning, I finished Phase 1A of the front-to-back clean and reorganization of my place. My kitchen is officially my bitch. After some dusting and vacuuming, Phase 1B will be done, and it’s on to the supply closet and continuing research on decorative options for my very small hallway. I hope to have my house whipped into shape by the time the semester starts, or at the very latest, my birthday.
Cleaning. That is the form my grief has taken.
*And this is coming from someone who cleans for fun. I, like, take great pleasure in a Sunday spent at home Bon Ami-ing my sink.