Come in, friend. Welcome to my home! It’s disgusting in here, I mean really. Look at those dustbunnies that I’m going to nonchalantly wave a hand about, as if it doesn’t really bother me in the slightest. As if I haven’t been cleaning and scouring every flat surface in preparation for your arrival.
I apologize for the mess, even though the “mess” is an errant dust bunny, and my home is pretty much spotless and also styled perfectly so that it looks as if it’s a true mess, but really it’s a styled mess. “Oh, those stacked blocks?” I’ll say. “Charlie totally forgot to put them away after we built a tower this morning.” I’m lying, though, because Charlie was watching Winnie the Pooh while I vigorously cleaned my home so you’d stumble into the airbrushed version of my home life. In the airbrushed version, messes are styled, my hair has been washed and I’m wearing yoga pants, because I actually do go to yoga class.
In reality, Charlie hasn’t played with those blocks since he discovered the iPad in the midst of a wildly unsuccessful moment of parenting in which I let him dig through my purse to occupy him during a rare and blissful dinner with friends. I say blissful when I really mean crazed, because I was mad at Charlie for throwing his fork and his father was mad at me for giving him a fork and I was mad at his father for pretending not to notice that I was giving Charlie a fork.
But the Instagram of my plate at dinner was really pretty.
Also, these yoga pants are the fancy kind, which I’ll tell you are totally worth the splurge, because they make your butt look ah-mazing, but really I just mean they make me feel better when I do actually make it to yoga class. For the record, that was four times this month, and in fact, I couldn’t even wear the fancy butt pants because they were in the dirty laundry pile (from wearing them every other day of the month).
But today, I changed into jeans and this sweet little chunky knit cardigan that I’ll tell you I think I found in the bottom of my husband’s closet but, actually, you’ll have spotted the same one at Forever 21. You know, the store you said you were too old to shop at? You are. And I am. But I do, because it’s cheap and because my fancy butt pants are on the laundry room floor and because I get a little rush when I shop, like I’m not aging and I have complete control over my life and this sweater will make me look completely effortless, a woman who shops her husband’s closet without a care in the world.
Said sweater has been on aforementioned floor until this morning around 8:14am when I furiously began cleaning the house in preparation for this very moment: the arrival of you, my dearest friend.
The dearest friend that knows everything about me, except for all of the above. The dearest friend that prides me on my effortless style, my calm demeanor.
The dearest friend that I compliment for the same attributes, even though five minutes ago, you scarved down a bag of Chik-fil-A and some Skittles you found on the bottom of your minivan floor because you forgot to run to the store this week and can’t find food anywhere in your home. Even though when you say “forgot,” you meant “were too caught up in your Pinterest feed and were feeling kind of lazy and you’ll make better decisions tomorrow.”
Friend, can we call it a draw? Can we stop apologizing for our messes that aren’t really messes, unless of course we’re talking our basement — and in that case, can we tackle it together? Can we start telling the truth about our losses while embracing our wins? Can we confess that our face turned one million shades of red when our child planked the floor of Target in an utterly normal yet disastrous two-year-old tragedy? Can we shatter the myth of perfect, of effortless, of everything?
Can we agree that our lives are perfectly and completely and beautifully and incredibly and gloriously imperfect?
If so, come on in, friend. Welcome to my home. I just mopped, because my daughter pooped right where you’re standing.