The Messy Art of Living Alone
By: Camerin Courtney
Published: 23 January 2008
I'm dying to show someone my bedroom closet. It's a well-organized
thing of beauty.
At least, for right now.
During my recent two days home sick from work—battling
a bone-rattling cough and hiding out from Chicagoland's negative-14-degree
weather—I got the sudden urge to purge the clutter from
my bedroom closet and kitchen cabinets.
I have to be in the right frame of mind to sort with true
effectiveness. That frame of mind is somewhere between Army
drill sergeant and Peace Corps volunteer. I need to be ruthless,
fighting the temptation to hang onto that gaudy blouse because
I once received a compliment while wearing it. And I need
to be benevolent, thinking of all the needy people who could
drink from the 57 mugs I've somehow collected over the years.
However, this mindset strikes me with the frequency of a
lunar eclipse. So when the urge hits, I need to just go with
it—copious amounts of phlegm or not.
I used to experience this mindset more frequently when I
had a roommate. Actually, I think the mindset was less of
a motivator than was my pride—either saving my pride
in not wanting my roommate to see me as messy, or boosting
my pride in having her oooh and ahhh over my work.
So the other day when I stepped back to admire my closet-cleaning
handiwork, I wanted to turn to someone and say, "Am I
impressive, or what?" But then, to truly appreciate my
achievement, my companion would have needed to see the "before,"
with shoes and purses obscuring the floor and an extra 87
hangers clogging up the works. I'd gathered up four trash
bags of clothes, shoes, and purses to give away. And then
I'd moved on to the kitchen and gathered another two bags
of mugs and Tupperware containers. (I'm convinced some of
these objects mate and multiply when I'm not looking.)
My strange need for a witness reminded me of that old philosophical
question asking whether a tree falling in a forest really
makes a sound if no one's around to hear it. Suddenly I found
myself wondering, If a single person cleans out a closet and
no one's around to woohoo it, does the accomplishment really
count?
Instead of an adoring audience, I was alone, clapping over
my cleanliness . . . and vowing not to shop again for months.
But I've grown accustomed to this need for self-motivation
and self-congratulations. As anyone who's lived alone can
attest, one of the best things about a solo home is that no
one else is around to see the mess. And, ironically, one of
the worst things about solo living is that no one else is
around to see the mess.
I love that in the middle of a busy week—filled with
church commitments, freelance work projects, and coffee dates
with friends—I can waltz in and out of my home as if
I were at a hotel. By the end of those weeks, an archaeologist
could do a dig on my bedroom chair to discover what I wore
all week, could spot the various places I opened my mail and
started organizing it into "pay now" and "deal
with later" piles, and could likely see a growing stack
of need-to-be washed dishes in my sink.
I love that I can order my life around my priorities—serving
others, cultivating community, nurturing my faith—instead
of get bogged down with housekeeping. And I especially appreciate
that my increasing lack of domestic attention during the week's
progression doesn't affect anyone else.
But the other day when I heard myself tell someone not to
judge my domestic skills by the state of my kitchen—which
sported a fair amount of dust and a sparse amount of food—I
began to wonder why I need someone else's eyes looking in
before I see the mess. And why I don't feel as great a need
to clean and sort and stock and wash for me?
Perhaps I don't perform household tasks as much for myself
because, as a woman, I've often heard the admonition to perform
domestic chores in order to serve others—offering a tidy
home to a weary spouse, cooking nutritious meals for young,
growing bodies. But without these people in my life, without
this external motivation for tackling certain tasks, I need
to tap into a different, internal motivation for keeping my
home.
A divorced friend gave voice to this different motivation
recently when she talked about the strangeness of setting
up a home and cooking and cleaning for herself. She noticed
these activities required a different energy from the motivation
she'd had throughout her marriage. "It felt freeing and
yet almost selfish to do these things just for me," she
confided.
Those final three words—just for me—helped me put
part of this struggle in perspective. I've set up a home just
for me. I've decorated it just for me. I prepare meals there
just for me. I clean it just for me. Sure, I strive to practice
good hospitality in my home, so, on the days I'm expecting
guests, I do these tasks with others in mind as well. But
most days, I'm the only one who notices whether I do these
things or not; I'm the only one who benefits or suffers from
the investment of time and energy or not.
I admit I'm tempted at times to see my housekeeping as selfish.
To think I'm going through a lot of effort for little ol'
me. Other times I'm tempted not to do these tasks, since I'm
the only one who'll notice, and I don't really mind a few
piles in my bedroom, a half-decorated kitchen, eggs for dinner
again.
But, in the end, I don't want to live in a hotel—a place
where I flit and alight, coming and going without a sense
of ownership and rootedness. I want to live in a home. And,
right now, I'm a household of one. So I get to (or, perhaps,
have to) determine what sort of home I want to keep—whether
it will be messy or organized, will sport vintage or modern
décor, will feature gourmet meals or quick-and-easy
fare. I need to make these decisions intentionally—and
just for me.
While keeping a home for others requires a servant's heart,
compromise, and selflessness, keeping a home for oneself requires
discipline, responsibility, and a certain amount of self-esteem.
For I know I'm one of God's beloved kids who deserve a safe
haven for body, heart, mind, and soul.
So, I'm going to excuse myself now, because I have a nice
clean closet I need to go admire.
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