Clearly I’m home, because I’ve gone from being a buffalo photographer to fielding requests for plastic surgery from a ten-year old boy. To wit, as they say in the law:
“Mom, I need plastic surgery to get rid of my butt chin.”
I’d been home for less than 24 hours. We were in the car returning home from dinner, where he’d informed me that the quesadilla he ordered was just not healthy enough, so perhaps I could make him some ramen noodles at home instead. This new request, however, was a surprise.
“So can I get it?”
“Why not?” He reacted as though I was declining to donate him a kidney.
“Because you’re ten. And plastic surgery costs thousands of dollars. And besides, everyone has something they dislike about their bodies. It’s part of growing up to learn to accept yourself as you are.”
“BUT MOM I HAVE A BUTT ON MY CHIN.”
“I sympathize. I have thin lips and a nose dent. But if I had thousands of extra dollars I’d spent it on new camera gear instead of surgically removing a feature from a 10-year-old that the rest of the world finds attractive.”
Fortunately, the Butt Chin issue faded into the background and I’ve moved on to organizing the new home we moved into at the end of May. I live in sort of a conundrum on that issue. My mind does not take naturally to organizing; me organizing a space is like trying to post on Facebook with dial-up – it works, but only theoretically. I stare at a mess to be organized and my mind starts to cloud. Muscles tense up and my eyes start to look for something else to do. On the other hand, I hate clutter, and I function best in a clean and organized environment. So this weekend I decided to organize my sewing room, because it was ground zero for the rest of the stuff lying around the house, the entry point into the seamless web of crap left over from the move.
And I did it – it took me a full weekend and lots of breaks to play Candy Crush and zone out from the effort, but by Sunday afternoon I was removing the last bit of clutter from the tables. But as my hand hovered over the table, clutching a small grey Lego that a child I will not name but who definitely has a Butt Chin had chucked into my sewing equipment, a panicky thought struck: I was going to die.
Yes. I organized my sewing room, therefore I am marked for death. It’s over, it’s done, and therefore, apparently so is my life. Because obviously, as long as I still had a messy sewing room nagging at me, I would remain immune from death. Fate couldn’t be so cruel as to take someone who hadn’t made the time to clean her sewing room, could it? No.
Anyway, it was a neat but sobering peek into my psyche. After all, it’s been 24 hours and I’m still here. I guess this means I have a lot of stuff to finish. Whoops.
But if I finish it all, I know I’m doomed. In that case, I bequeath to all of you my fabric. Which you will find neatly organized in the sewing room.