My Messy House Says Something About Me— But Don’t Judge Me For It

Recently, an out-of-town friend reached out to me. She was traveling on business to my city for a few days. She wondered if she could stay at my place in my spare bedroom.

I froze. This is a good friend. We get along well. In the breakneck pace of mid-30s life, it’s hard to take out time to germinate solid friendships — the type where you can have mimosas well into the afternoon without mentally planning for the next looming appointment on your stacked calendar.

I didn’t know what to stay. I could invite my friend to stay with me. But that would put me in the awkward position of exposing the seedy underbelly of my life.

My home — my messy, disorganized temple. The place where I abandon all pretense of being neat and orderly.

The place where I can be me — someone who waits too long to pick up the wet umbrella off the floor. Someone who believes that the living room sofa does a great job masquerading as a purse rack.

And the snack cupboard? That’s for decorative purposes only. If I am in urgent need of sustenance, it would be easiest to grab my packaged nuts from my living room table.

The bottom line?

I am not a naturally organized, borderline obsessive, socially acceptable neat-freak.

Far from it. I actually fall on the very opposite end of that spectrum.

And finally, at the age of 35, after years of hiding my shame, I’m ready to excavate it from the depth of my emotional closet.

I am messy, and yes, my house is messy. And I don’t want anyone to stay with me unless I’m related to them.

It’s too stressful. It will require a full day of hurricane relief style clean-up. And I don’t have the time or the patience for that.

Is being disorganized bad? Why don’t I just clean up the clutter once and for all?

Despite my strong aversion of organization, I realize the importance of cleanliness and hygiene to a balanced, fulfilled life. And so, I have a cleaning lady who keeps my home livable. But it’s not good enough to invite people over along with their silent disapproval and wide-eyed judgment.

The time and effort required to live with perfectly folded corners and symmetrically stacked suit jackets could surely be spent doing other things — such as writing.

Why waste these hours when I can live with some disorganization? Even when I clean up the clutter, it magically reappears. Because that’s who I am — Woody Woodpecker on steroids. Why not lean into it instead of fighting it?

My house reflects me. Sure, I’m not organized — but we can’t be good at everything.

The flip side of being disorganized is that I am highly adaptable. I am adroit at managing through chaos. My weakness is on the other side of the same coin that houses a core strength. Why would I want to throw that coin away? All I do is hope that it comes up heads more often than it does tails.

We need to embrace our strengths and our weaknesses — because both make us who we are.

I refuse to feel guilty about saying no to my friend. Yes, I am in town. But no, I simply don’t have the time to clean up my guest room enough to make it habitable.

And if she’s offended and stops talking to me — oh well. A true friend doesn’t need an explanation. A true friend understands that we’re all human, warts and all. There are enough complications in life without having to window dress our personalities or stage our houses for those close to us.

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