All my life, I have been a hot slob. It’s who I am. It’s the way I’m comfortable. I tried to hide it but what was the use?

I was born this way. 

My coming out was hardest on my mother, poor thing. She made comments like, you’ll grow out of it. I’m not too worried. Just wait until you have a place of your own. 

While under my parents’ roof, I abode by their rules. I lived as closely to my natural lifestyle as possible without encroaching on their especially high standards of living. I didn’t want to embarrass them. I just wanted to be me.

I had an eye-opening moment at age sixteen. It included a two-inch-thick, raw sausage link I found in my bedroom one fateful Sunday afternoon, tucked amongst a pile of dirty laundry. Though, I didn’t find it. Finding it would’ve suggested I had been cleaning and sorting and came across it on my own. 

No.

The squishy sounds of my yorkeepoo happily gnaw-sucking his way through the plastic alerted me of its existence. 

Thank God for the dirty laundry. It soaked up all the red, raw meat blood and juices and saved the carpet from looking like the location of a mini murder scene.

That would’ve been a good story to tell future house owners.

Back in January, I was moving out of my parents house. Soon, I was free to be me, and everyone–from my father to brother to tarrier-mix, Kobe– regarded me with eyes of worry and concern. 

Comments like, “we’ll never see the carpet again after moving day, huh?” came from the boys. And “just make sure you keep your bathroom clean,” pleaded my mother.

Two months ago, I spent an obscene amount of money on a small, black-and-creme aztec rug I intended to unfurl across the carpet at the foot of my bed. My boyfriend made me promise that if I purchased the rug, it would double as a Clean Space Area. No shoes or clothes were allowed on the rug. I placed my credit-card-wielding hand on the Bible, nodded angelically, and solemnly swore.

Today is Saturday, August 11th, 2018. 

Saturday, the day of cleaning.

Slob girl says what?

Oh yes. Slob girl said cleaning.

Ten minutes ago, I scurried into my bathroom to put my toothbrush away. I noticed it lying there, tipped over the edge of the sink. I dropped it in my toothbrush cup where it belonged, placed the toothpaste in the cupboard behind the mirror, and tucked my hairbrush into the drawer. I then stepped back, examined my now-tidy bathroom counter, sighed happily, and proceeded to walk away.

I froze in my tracks. 

What had I just done?

Who have I become?

As I’m writing this, I’m ACTUALLY thinking, Bekah, time’s ticking and you need to leave soon. Stop writing and take care of the pots in the kitchen. 

TAKE CARE OF THE POTS IN THE KITCHEN?!

What happened to the old me? The one who didn’t notice the mess until the stink hit her nose? The girl who only cleaned when company was coming over. And if that was the case, it took three hours because everything needed to be scrubbed so thoroughly. 

My Abuelita used to sit me down and talk to me about the importance of keeping a neat house and home for her husband, and twelve-year-old me would reply, “I’m never getting married so I don’t need to worry about that.” 

Now look at me.

Does this mean I’m growing up?

Maybe I’m not who I thought I was. Maybe I wasn’t born this way. Maybe I’ve changed.

Oh, dear Lord. 

Have I become a neat freak?

Was my mother right all along?

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