There is a lot of talk these days about decluttering. And my eyes glaze over whenever I hear the word. Apparently, if I want to be happy in this world, I need to declutter.

Phooey.

Back when I held writing retreats, a writing prompt came to me: Lazy Slob.

I toyed with adding the word Fat to it. Should it be 3 words? Fat Lazy Slob? Or should I get rid of Lazy? Or just Fat Slob? They all have their power rooted in the same shame bucket. What would my writing retreat participants write to this prompt, I wondered.

I am a slob. I am a pig in a sty with a dirty snout and a pungent smell snorting around covered in dried mud up to my tits and I’m happy! I’m the proverbial pig-in-shit happy.

I can’t remember when or where the slobiness first revealed itself but it must have been early on. I had the kind of mother who regularly did housework, made my bed daily, and picked up my dirty clothes, washed them and tucked them back into my dresser drawers clean and folded.

I shared a bedroom with my sister Janey. This was not a good arrangement for either of us on account of all the screaming and crying coming from my side of the room.

I think Janey probably perceived my dependence and despised me for it. She was only two-and-a-half years older and was built like a scraggy sparrow but somehow, she exuded independence. She didn’t need anyone. Or did she? Maybe she despised her own powerlessness because no matter what, she was also unable to command our parents to pay more attention or show more affection.

I know I was certainly powerless.

Janey was likely enraged by my ongoing attempts to get my needs filled and she got quite a bit of attention by provoking me. She perfected the attack and my predictable cry for help.

Did Janey complain about the state of our shared bedroom? I don’t remember. But my scattering of paper-dolls and Barbie clothes might have made her stomp around and lash out at my inability to tidy up after I finished playing.

I never finished playing.

I just moved on to other things. Perhaps took a little breather. Maybe some coloring needed doing. I just moved on, and then on to more sophisticated stuff. Entertainment seemed important. Also working and selling stuff. Talking on the phone, raising kids, cooking.

Have you ever seen the photo of Einstein’s office?

It’s a mess. His mind was probably a squirrel’s nest of swirling ideas. I like to style myself after him—buried in papers and books, post-it notes and reading glasses.

I make my bed and tuck my clothes back where they go, but none of it is neat. I’m too busy to take care of all this stuff. I’m busy reaching out, making noise, saying I’m here, do you see me? And all I have are these waking hours and this blank piece of paper.

Thank you for reading this week’s story. I hope you enjoy it. Each week I send a little piece of writing for you. Sometimes it’s a personal essay and other times it’s a poem or piece of fiction. I hope you enjoy my scribblings. If my post prompts you to share something, by all means, hit reply to this email or leave a comment wherever you read this story. I love to hear from you.

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