What would it be like to drink wine out of a martini glass?

These are the questions I ask myself while I procrastinate on writing my blog post.

(All you sommeliers out there, never fear, my wine is in a wine glass where it belongs. Plus, I don’t think a martini glass would make it any more exciting.)

You know what else I procrastinate on? Cleaning.

Specifically: cleaning my closet.

Even now, you could make the very convincing argument that I’m writing this instead of opening (or, more accurately, forcing open) my closet door and getting down to business.

But (praise be) this is a blog post, not a court of law, so if you’re making that argument and hard core judging me right now, I can remain in blissful ignorance if I choose.

And there I go, procrastinating again.

If you’ve ready my post about messes and impossible perfection, then you know that, at heart, I consider messes to be part of Really Real everyday life. However…there’s a difference between a small inconvenience and a dire necessity. And it’s time—high time—and if I was in procrastination mode I might wonder where the phrase “high time” came from—I also may Google it to make sure that it is, in fact, a common phrase and not something I just mistakenly made up—that I cleaned my closet.

Dear readers, just know how much my entire being is cringing away from that. The mere words “clean my closet” are making my contort my body in a shoddy—and oh so useless—effort of escapism.

You know how people use social media to chronicle their weight loss to hold themselves accountable for going to the gym and eating carrots instead of waffle fries? That’s what I’m doing now. By opening up to you about my abysmally disorganized closet, I am hoping I will sufficiently shamed/motivated enough to finally do something about it.

Because, here’s the thing. I am an adult. I have a steady job. I can vote. I am successfully keeping 10+ plants alive. I may not know how to cook elaborately, but I am capable of getting necessary sustenance and I make a mean PB&J. I even make the bed most days. Heck, I am planning in the midst of planning my wedding, for goodness’ sake. So I should be perfectly capable of cleaning my closet.

It’s just that I don’ wanna. [Yes, you were supposed to read that in the most childish voice you can possibly imagine.]

Enough is enough. I vow to you, dear friends, that before I turn 25 (which I’m trying to ignore but is actually happening very soon), I will have cleaned my closet. All my pants will be folded, my shirts hung. Purses will be in place. The random bits and bobs of crap that have no other home will be organized.

I will do this. I have to do this.

Dear readers…if you don’t hear from me again, please send help: I’ll be buried alive under a monumental pile of clothes.

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