Here’s what happened to me yesterday:
I, believing I have made much growth this year as an adult female, decided I would take a sip of my father’s Burger King coffee just to see if my attempt to acclimate myself to the taste with flavored Maxwell House instant coffees was working.
No, it is not! I still really hate coffee! My parents had a good laugh as I raced around the kitchen to pour a little cup of milk to cleanse the icky taste from my mouth.
Currently, this is my morning plan: I get up when my boyfriend does (7:30am). I make a cup of “coffee” in one of my special mugs. Then I’m supposed to sit down at the desk and write before my conscious brain catches up to what I’m doing.
Unfortunately, this is what my morning usually looks like: I roll around until 8, get up because the automatic kitty scooper is straining on some heavy, formerly moist litter lump stuck to the bottom of the cat box. Despite my disgust at my first morning task, I remember I’m in the kitchen and that’s where breakfast happens. I make an egg, fully intending on writing, and I do. Sometimes. I sit in the living room where the morning sunshine filters in, gobble down my egg sandwich (usually with too much mayo which is just right for me), and then I do some other things which aren’t always writing. Eventually, I call it a bust and say I’ll get to it at 10am before I go to work. And then 10:15 magically rolls around after a walk and a shower and I decide to get to it later.
I’ve found that when I get up in the morning and then actually write, no matter how much, I’m much more likely to get back into it as the day progresses rather than what I normally do which is procrastinate until the day is done. So that is exactly what I’m working on this month. I want my early morning writing time to become as natural and necessary as my morning walks.
I think I hold onto things I don’t need, like old toys and scraps of paper, because I keep waiting for that moment when I’ll be adult enough that I won’t care about those things anymore. As I’ve grown up though, I realize now that I’m never going to be that “adult.”
There were some things that I could get rid of, and it felt good to toss them. It’s like throwing out mental baggage and starting over new. When I look around at the lack of mess in my apartment, I do become a little heartened at the sight. It makes me feel like I have come a long way.
At the same time, I also realize that I won’t be able to get rid of everything. It’s a little embarrassing, but it’s also something that I’m willing to proudly accept. Yes, I managed to throw out some of the weird broken toy robots, but I kept the majority of them, especially the favorites that might be missing an arm or a leg from the great robot battles of ’86. And I now have a top shelf of the hall closet dedicated to my two containers of My Little Ponies. I know that some of them might be worth something if I were to put them up for sale, but I don’t want to risk that they’ll fall into the hands of a modder. (Which is actually pretty awesome, I just don’t want my little ponies to be ripped apart and re-sculpted into something from Aliens.)
I think one of the keys to life is realizing how far you’ve come, and at the same time accepting the place you’re in. It’s not always easy. Despite the fact that I’m aware of this and I want to accept myself, I’ll still always feel a little squeamish opening up the hall closet when guests are around. Which is silly. If I didn’t keep the awesome old toys I have, I wouldn’t have moments like this one where my real cat, Danger, checks out my crazy robotic cat, Petster. Plus, the truth is that the people who know me, the ones who I’d invite into my home, already know that I probably have toys in the same closet I keep my cleaning supplies. If anything, they’re the types of people who would join me on the floor and help me piece my robots back together.
I’m sort of all over the place with this post. Mostly, I wanted to share that cute video and admit that cleaning feels great, but so does holding on and remembering.