My new apartment is perfect. Clean white walls and perfect wooden blinds. Perfectly closing cupboards and drawers. A walk-in closet to hide in when the family tries to come around. Soft carpet floors good enough to sleep on. The first weekend I put away, wipe away, tidied away to make it so. This, I thought, this is how I will live. Stylish and clean, glossy even. Everything recycled, all things cleaned with house hold products. A wonderful, intimate second hand sofa; here, I will lie about in my many "me" moments, hold books between crimson manicured fingers and read of historical skulduggery. At the very least, I will do that. This red bench, here I will morn the loss of simple living and swallow down organic tea.
Life happened. Already. That did not take long. Now, a barbie scooter rides my floor. My apartment is perfect. Stuffed animals hog my sofa, "this is their bed mommy!", and my apartment is perfect. Papers clutter the red bench. Chocolate milk is spilled on the white carpet and cleaned up with the white Mickey Mouse towel. "Don't worry mom, I got it!" Clothes still sit in boxes and some toys may never find a home. Paint has pealed off the front door and the shower needs a good scrub. My apartment, my beautiful apartment, is perfect.