Today is my second blogiversary!!!
Meaning . . . two years ago today I wrote the first post on A Slob Comes Clean. No one knew I was writing it. Not even my husband.
I had just come up with the blogging-for-accountability-and-focus idea and had to get going.
Like when you’re standing on a high-dive and know that if you think too long, you’ll never jump.
It’s fun to think I’ve been blogging for two years, but it’s also humbling.
I’m pretty sure that two years ago I thought this day would never really come. Either I would be boo-ed off of the internet out of horror over the deep dark slob secrets I revealed, or more likely . . . I’d be done.
Y’know. Done being a slob. With a perfectly organized and decluttered and never-chaotic home.
It would make sense. If I really buckled down and did what I was supposed to do and changed, what would be left to write about?
I’ve learned a lot over the past two years. Mainly, that being a slob isn’t something I do, it’s who I am.
I know. It sounds awful, and I think that it would be fine for someone to pick a word other than “slob.” But I’ve chosen slob. And by allowing myself to accept that being a slob is just a part of my (otherwise totally fabulous) personality, I’ve made real changes. I stopped comparing myself to others and trying to live up to ambiguous standards of what I assumed everyone else’s homes looked like behind closed doors on a Monday morning.
Part of this has been from exploring my own excuses and habits and finding solutions that actually work for me.
But a big part has been you. My readers.
On a weekly basis, I get emails or comments expressing the relief that someone feels when she finally learns that she is not alone. I LOVE these emails. They do for me the thing that the writer is saying I did for her.
They make me feel understood.
Someone understands my problem.
Someone understands my frustration.
Someone understands that I don’t “just like living that way . . . . I guess.”
Someone understands that it’s possible to not realize how bad it is until the moment the doorbell rings.
Someone understands that it’s possible to hate the mess but be able to function within it.
Someone understands me.
So . . . . thank you.