"An organized desk is an organized mind." I seriously thought if my AP English teacher senior year said that one more time I would vomit all over his organized desk. I thought that saying was a load of bull. I consider myself a relatively organized person academically, socially, and economically. I'm not a chronic deadline-misser, I'm not one of those kids who looks dumbstruck when the teacher comes to collect homework and painstakingly searches their folders even though they know the assignment being collected was never completed, or even known about. I don't stand my friends up- if we meet for dinner at 7, I get there at 7. I don't use planners or calendars, I'm just good at keeping things like that straight. I don't blow my money on pointless things or run my debit card balance into negative numbers (okay, one time I did buy this sweet hammock online for like $400, but I acknowledge that was a mistake. Lie- it was awesome. That hammock was worth every penny- if your hammock doesn't have drink holders and attached tiki lamps, I feel bad for you). Which is why I always thought my teacher's saying was completely inaccurate. Despite being relatively organized in my personal affairs, my bedroom was always...interesting.
My dad refers to my bedroom as Narnia- he says when you enter it, it's like time stops and weird furry things come out of nowhere. My mom used to come in my room, sigh, and just leave. My little brothers used to use inspiration for their science experiments based on items found under my bed. (Okay- it was one time. And it turns out pita bread, contrary to popular belief, does not mold.) I make it sound horrible, and okay, yeah, it is. It was never gross messy- I never eat in my room (other than the pita bread incident of '07) or bring soda cans in there and leave them around. There are no crumbs on the carpet, I wash my sheets regularly, and there aren't really strange furry things crawling around. Except, on occasion, my youngest brother. But I am the Tasmanian Devil of clothing. It takes me eons to decide what to wear, and in the process I manage to amass a pile of clothes taller than I am, usually comprised of strange items of clothing I put on, gaze at, and immediately discard. Between that and my haphazard makeup application techniques (I'll apply mascara at my dresser, and leave it, eyeliner at the bathroom mirror, and leave it, sit on my bed and put on lip gloss, which is then left on my night stand, and put on deodrant which I usually toss to the ground when done with), my room looks like it's been hit by El Nino. Between the clothes, the make-up, the deodrant on the floor, and then the pile of books on my nightstand that is always leaning precariously to one side, poised to topple at any moment, we have a situation.
And you know what? None of it bothers me. Rather than reach into a drawer and pick out a neatly folded shirt, I simply scavenge my several piles of clothing. Rather than reach onto my nightstand and grab my deodrant, I reach down on the floor. Rather than put on my make up at my bathroom mirror, I simply put it on as I find it. Weird, right? I know. It just doesn't bother me. The mess is soothing in a way that is difficult to explain. It is relief- environments that are too organized I often find tense and feel stressful. My room is anything goes, and I like it.
When I got to college, all of that changed. I began to realize- your dorm represents who you are in a big way. When I first meet people and bring them to my dorm room, I see their eyes cast around quickly, taking it all in. And I'm equally guilty. Wow, two Bob Marley posters? Pothead. Hot pink bedspread and cheetah print bulletin board? High maintenance. Big screen TV? My new friend. Your room is how you express yourself, how you want to appear and be received by others. I love that in my dorm room a bright red poster of Don Vito stares menacingly down on me from beside John Lennon's faraway, dreamlike look. I like that in one corner I have Jim Morrison and in the other a poster of Patrick Swayze lifting Jennifer Grey above his head. I like that my bedspread is the color of my eyes, my lamp is pretty kooky looking, and I have a VHS collection that has taken me years to collect and is, admittedly, pretty damn enviable. (Yeah, I have a VCR, get at me). I take pride in my things, and I keep my room clean. I no longer let clothing create a sort of Himalayas around my bed- I apply make up in front of the mirror like a normal person. The rhetoric of my room has gone from me seemingly like a mental patient (high school) to looking like a person who actually cares about taking the time to do little things, like fold my towels and vacuum. At first, I questioned: is this a loss of my individuality? Am I too scared for people to know that I, Amanda Ascoli, am messy?
The answer is not the loss of something but the gaining of another- maturity. I like my clothes now, I have a job and the money I make goes towards buying them. Why throw them on the floor? I just bought new Great Lash last week and I want to find it- how about I keep it in my make-up case? I guess what my room suggests now is that I, Amanda Ascoli, may be growing up.
