Am I willing to change? This question has been on my mind a lot this week. And mainly because little things have been happening to illustrate that I am first a flaky writer and in a close second a major creature of habit.
The most recent episode that shattered my little bubble was having some remodeling done on my home. When the work was done I was so “weirded out” by anyone else touching my furniture (which they had to move to put in the new floor) that I went on a crazy cleaning spree. I wiped down walls, cleaned the carpet and still swear that I smell sweaty contractor less than a week later.
The electric air cleaner is running as we speak and my can of Febreze has been getting a workout.
My house is my domain. My sanctuary. As it happens my “organized chaos” is even more carefully crafted than I had ever imagined. Carefully chosen artwork and photos on the walls that make me feel at peace. My books stacked in convenient places which doesn’t always include an actual bookshelf. Everything is just the way I like it: cluttered enough to feel homey but color-coordinated enough to look like I took some time in decorating.
But to invite someone else to share my life a few of these things would definitely need to change. To share a home with a man, he would touch things (or move them, gasp!) and would have as much right to tabletop and closet space as myself. My blue couch (the color called a feminine “sea foam”) might not be to his taste. He might want us to move to another house entirely.
I have to ask myself whether I could mentally and emotionally handle someone permanently sharing my bubble without going on a cleaning spree every night… Building a new bubble together?
And the answer is: For the right man, I hope so.