Tomorrow is the second installment in our craft series. Mel, Annette, Katie, and Shae will be coming over and Mel will be teaching us all how to knit. At first I thought we might do embroidery, as well, but I think focusing on just one activity will be more than enough to learn. I am really interested in learning to do crewel work, but I am broke as a joke right now and figured I’d rather spend my money on food and drinks and some nice yarn to make myself a scarf, rather than purchasing more wool and linen. I think maybe we’ll do that next. To your left is the yarn and cool needles I got at Broad Ripple Knits yesterday after I got off work. When I walked in, a really nice woman (I think it was Karin) asked if I needed any help. She had her work cut out for her.
I’m excited to have some new people over, especially because it will take all our relationships to another level. But for that same reason, it increases my anxiety. Having people over is a very big deal for me. It’s stressful, and very personal to me. I used to be a lot more laid back, but the past few years I’ve gotten freaked out about the idea of having guests. My dad is the same way, and the couple of times he and my mom have come over he refuses to leave to doorway because he knows how hard it can be to have someone see your house. But the times they’ve come over I’ve spent hours scrubbing, so I get a little disappointed when he doesn’t whip out the white glove.
Charlie always tells me to just stop — no one will even notice what I don’t do, he says, so just leave it alone. But the moment he left for work I found myself mopping, sweeping, dusting, and reorganizing things that “just don’t look right” where they are.
My dad once told me that we “can’t go through life straightening pictures that are crooked.” I half-jokingly responded “Why not?” But I know what he means.
Today I stopped after the dusting and mopping. Despite the fact that my mind is telling me these things need to be done, I’m telling my mind it isn’t necessary. People aren’t going to come over to the house and freak out, scream, refuse to speak to me ever again, or throw up because they think I’m a filthy pig. Everything looks fine where it is. The spare bedroom really is a wreck (and I’d take a photo of it to prove to you that this isn’t just OCD speaking — and I don’t have OCD or I wouldn’t actually give up out of frustration when I clean), but I’m not going to do anything to it. I’ll just close the door.