Listen, I'm incredibly messy. I just don't see mess. In this way, I'm kind of your typical bad husband. My husband, on the other hand, folds his boxers, tucks one sock into another to keep a matched pair.
For example: Recently, I'd put something on layaway for him to pick up later. He walked up to layaway and explained the situation, that his wife had left something here for him. The guy said, "Pajama top?" And my husband thought, Yeah, she probably was in here wearing a pajama top, so he said, "Yes, pajama top." The guy came back with a pajama top. Have I ever worn pajama-esque clothes out of the house? Yes. But this time, ha-ha!, I was guiltless. (Two days later, I was pumping gas in my slippers, but that's neither here nor there.)
The house is kept up pretty well. Early on, when we were broke, we still paid to have someone come in and clean sometimes -- because it was cheaper than marriage counseling and the only thing we really ever fought about.
My office, though, where I write, it's mine. No cleaners in there. I like the jumble, the mess, the stacks, the feeling of being in a nest of ideas.
My husband says that I could step over a dead body in a chalk outline cordoned off with caution tape to get to my desk and not notice.
But TODAY I got proof that there is a method to my messiness. The NYTimes had a piece of research, DATA, that mess might be good -- more sensory scaffolding for building my ideas.
For all those messy folks out there, here's the linkage.
VINDICATION! Read it and weep, neat freaks!