It is quite possible that my boyfriend, former All-American baseball player & Major League Baseball draftee who hits fifty home runs a season, is more domestic than I am.
Tonight he tells me about how he irons his clothes and does his laundry every night.
I stare at the worn clothing accumulating in the corner chair of my room.
This morning he tells me about the pepperoni and egg omelet he made, all before 6:45 am.
I scarfed down a pop-tart before running out the door at 7:43am.
Currently, he is cleaning his house for company.
Currently, I am allowing a mess to exist.
I tell myself that, despite my best efforts, I will never be an immaculate housekeeper.
My socks will not match.
I will not fold my underwear.
There will always be a corner for clothes classified in the "not quite dirty and can still be worn category."
I will always leave cabinet doors open.
I will always put dishes back in a different place.
The comforter will always be crooked.
After all, it is what it is.
