October!
I always had this habit as a kid: when my mom said guests were coming. "Guests" that, according to the 14-year-old girl I was, were "bad" and would judge me by how I kept my room. I'd perform my 5-minute escape plan. Tidying meant hiding. Pencils, paper, handkerchiefs went under the bed. Sharpener dust was tucked into the window grill. My school bag vanished beneath the cupboard. Clothes were stuffed into it so tightly that if anyone opened the shelf door, the whole mess would avalanche out. It was a panic move, a quick fix though! I’ve carried that feeling with me. Not the actual mess, but the memory. I was never satisfied with how I arranged things. I’d call my mom to fix my bedsheet, because her final touch somehow made the whole scene look perfect. Once, when I asked her about it, she showed me all the actual trash I’d hidden while “cleaning.” It made me wonder: When I cleaned the room, was it “ever” really clean? I was terrified of being judg...