I thought I would grow out of it. . .

Twice a year, my marmie would venture downstairs to clean the girls' room. We're not talking about vaccuming or dusting, changing of sheets or washing windows. No, we're talking about a DEEP cleaning. A cleaning that required going through EVERYTHING and throwing out, reorganizing and rearranging. I'll admit it; I was the messy one. My practically perfect sister's stuff would always have stayed organized from intensive session to the next. So, when I say clean the girls' room, I really mean to say clean Whitney's portion of the room. At times, these sessions would last one, even two days, depending on my marm's patience and indulgence. Every time, when everything had been put away, she would say the same thing, "Doesn't that feel so nice to put everything in its place?" And while it did feel good, what really felt good was that our room had been rearranged. I loved the thrill of sleeping in my room at a different angle, looking at my room in a different way. I mean, the possibilities were endless. Literally. My parents can attest; I am sure they even consulted some professionals, because as I got a little older, rearranging my room became an obsession, almost a compulsion. Almost monthly, I would get up early on a Saturday morning and start shuffling. Believe me, it was always a disaster and both my parents would make intermittent stops to check on the progress. When I finally moved away from home, I realized that roommates didn't like the shuffle quite as much, so for almost eight years, my shuffling impulse was quietly replaced with the harsh reality of waking every day to the same room. Even when I had my own place for eight months, I wasn't seized with that almost overwhelming impulse to move things around. Well, my friends, never say never because it happened. Saturday morning at 7.30, I awoke abruptly. I had a layout in my head and I couldn't get it out of my mind. So, at 7.30 I started moving things, trying to be quiet, but you can't just move things without cleaning them (my marms would be quite proud), so--yes--I'll admit it; I even ran the vacuum in intensive bursts from 8 am to 9.30 am. My neighbors adding that to their growing list of complaints of late night piano playing, stereo blasting while the shower roars. I'll get a call soon I'm sure from the managers. I'm quite pleased with the results.

The larger picture is the after, the smaller the before:

While I might have mixed up the room, one thing stayed constant: my books Lots and lots of books. . .

Some things will never change.

--W