Labor Day Spring Cleaning

-->

-->

The dust that lined the baseboards had been building its home in the quiet darkness for almost four years. It feathered in the humid summer as air forced its way around the curves and corners powered by a box fax across the room, but it never lost its resolve. On Labor Day, it let loose. It made its way into my nostrils and lungs, stuck to the skin of my sweat-moistened stomach as I dragged out piles of unmatched socks and empty shoeboxes from the depths of my almost walk-in closet, clad only in a neon yellow tie-died sports bra and basketball shorts, on another steamy Chicago end-of-summer day.

Marathon training had been the impetus of a 12-mile run on Saturday morning and a 16-mile bike ride on Sunday afternoon, but I am a rule-follower, and Mondays are rest days. Overwhelmed by the impotence of a Monday off of work with no run to run, I decided at some point in the early afternoon that my bedroom closet would be the day's project. I could write or draw dinosaurs (two actually purposeful activities), but I craved a physical activity maybe to avoid a mental one.

I went through my closet, hanger by hanger, and removed some of my favorite shirts, shoving them deep into a donation bag, feeling reckless and irritated at my lifelong nostalgia. I decided I was out of my sneaker phase, replacing four pairs of infrequently worn, seriously worn-in shoes with a few sets of high heels on the shelf above my head.

Sneezing and sweating, I cleaned.  The computer blared indie dance tunes from the front room and the cat stayed safely hidden away from the commotion. I made a new space for the shoes that lived mostly in the hallway, and the stack of wicking shirts that had found a home on the floor. I found coins and bobby pins and, for some reason, three cylinders of Smarties. 

I imagined moving to my next place, and a shared closet with my girlfriend that wasn’t overrun by my clutter. I imagined loving my home so much that I would care too much to somehow let delicious packs of pastel colored candies get loose and live in the shadows of my GAP collared shirts.

The Great Closet Clean of 2013 was part girl-who-can’t-sit-still, part physical exercise, and part ode to commitment. In the weeks that precede yet another birthday, I want to continue to grow. I want to prove to myself that I am not done evolving. I also don’t want to end up on an episode of Hoarders.

On Living the Solo Life

The last time I lived in a space that was not shared was a time so distant that it feels unreal in my mind, like the memory of a hilarious misunderstanding that may have been a part of my post-college experience, or, perhaps, just a really vivid episode of Friends.

The basic motions of day to day living are hard to remember on my own, I find. How much coffee to make, how many times to hit the snooze button, remembering to drop off my Netflix on my way to the train, checking to see that I don’t have last nights makeup remaining on my face.

A person normally certain at home, I find I have lost that aspect of myself living alone. Without a companion, I ruminate daily on the possibility of a break-in, a forgotten coffee-pot on-switch, a cat caught dangerously among boxes. In the past, the reassurance of a roommate or a live-in partner somehow has made me feel more sure of myself, more confident. It also provides that convenience “just in case” back up system for all my errors – if forget to close the window or blow out a candle, there is a good chance the other resident of my home will remember. I just seem to feel stronger when someone is there telling me it is true.

Living alone has plenty of benefits—which are also hard to cope with in their own way. I like listening to whatever music I want at whatever volume with no need for consensus. I like watching all the slow and sad biopics that no one else finds interesting. I like drinking a glass of white wine before bed. I like the quiet within my walls, especially compared to the cacophony of the intersection outside my window. (I like that when I am making no noise, there is none.)

Having your own space is a privilege that is not enjoyed in all places or by all cultures. Even here, in the US, in Chicago, some people don’t support a woman living alone in a city, but I am lucky that it isn’t forbidden and that I have the financial ability to do so. It is a way to change the way you see yourself.

It is hard to imagine, from where I contemplate, the commitment of two people to share a space for the rest of time. Not just a bed, but a kitchen, a bathroom, a sofa. To share a day, a year, the life of a possible child. To divide ones life into two for sharing. Committed people who share a space may enjoy the added benefit of space-sharing – a confidence that the home won’t burn to the ground while they work – but the decision is expensive.

We often think of selflessness in terms of service, giving, anonymous donations, but the literal use of the word – to be selfless, to not be concerned with matters of self – marriage/commitment is just that. An agreement to think of another person as often as you think of yourself – to share your life, to choose a shared existence over one dedicated to personal priorities. To give up a place where the noise you make is the only noise in the room. This seems generous to me.

I think I am learning to be selfish, learning to not share, and learning how many scoops of coffee are enough for just one person. It is as long of a process as the road to selflessness, breaking all those sharing habits, but it is necessary when you find yourself living the solo life.