My job coach says that if I will myself to be more organized, it will become a reality in my life. I would like to believe him--on rainy Thursdays in June, I actually do take that leap of faith. But tonight, as I look around my bedroom/office, I come to a more practical conclusion-I can't have a boyfriend who is a neat freak.
In the bureau near the window. clothing spills out of a drawer. A suitcase sits on the bed, most of the clothing unpacked, waiting to be zipped up and shoved into the dining room closet. Maybe tonight. More likely tomorrow-the day when the rest of the clean laundry will be folded and put away.
As usual, I'm working on several articles at once. Is that an excuse for untamed piles of bills, school letters, and news pulled off the Internet? Somewhere here, I'm sure, is my calendar. But why do I need it when I've got dates written on scraps of old receipts all over the desk?
A while back I purchased a stand for the telephone-it would be wonderful if I used it, allowing for more space for...more papers.
Actually, I'm really not as bad as some of the serious slobs I have known and loved...and I'm not even a third class hoarder. I threw papers out almost daily, mostly in an attempt to find the ones I have mislaid-but is that any excuse for the unfiled paid bills, the unaswered letters, the to-do list still not written for a crazy busy week?
Well, I hope he likes my wit, my warmth, and my sparking eyes-those are feats of nature. Any organizational talents I accrue along the way is purely art. Not that art isn't all very well in its place, you understand-the art of filing, of listing, and of prioritizing just doesn't seem to have found its way to my place.
Hopefully he'll appreciate the virtues of the unruly, rebellious imagination-even if it rarely imagines hospital corners.
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