Hi, my name is Roxana, and I’m a…

This is a confession. You’re going to judge me, but I’m okay with that. Now, before I tell you what it is, allow me to spare you any unnecessary angst by telling you what it isn’t. It’s not a skeleton in my closet that’s ready to be freed, it’s not me coming out of the closet, and it’s not about me being a closet Satanist, stripper, or suicide bomber. That said, the fact that we’re now on the topic of closets, makes the irony of this piece unavoidable.

I have a closet, and I know it well. It’s that pretty-but-functional piece of furniture in a corner of my bedroom. It’s storage space, a clothing cabin, and, most importantly, it’s a shove-everything-in-here-to-fool-people-into-thinking-you’re-a-neat-person device (especially useful when you’ve got unexpected guests).

So, as you can see, I’m aware of my closet’s use. But, should you ever happen to be standing in the doorway of my bedroom, you’ll also see that I don’t use it. At all. I may well be the only young lass I know that can always see the back of their wardrobe. This is not due to a lack of clothing. Don’t be silly, I’m a girl, I have more than enough clothes. It’s because, brace yourself now, I have a floordrobe.

There, I said it. (Cue exhalation of relief.)

I’m not a dirty girl, but I sure am a messy one. And I can’t seem to pack the habit in (pun intended). There’s only one instance when I try to calm the sea of fabric that spreads across my bedroom floor. It is when I read about and am reminded of how the state of your immediate environment is a reflection of your current state of mind.

Hmm. What would Freud say? I imagine quite a lot. But he’d be throwing pearls before swine because I’ve done my own floordrobe autopsy. Not literally. I mean I didn’t go all CSI on my bedroom floor (I don’t have Horatio’s fancy sunglasses or his knack for unintentional humour). But intellectually, I’ve wrestled my disposition for disarray black and blue.

It was a heartfelt analysis, and after hours and hours of purposeful pondering I came up with two hypotheses. They’re conflicting notions, and not altogether positive, but then again, most honest criticisms aren’t.

Basically, there’s one of two options: Either I just couldn’t care less, or, and this one’s slightly more ominous, I’m failing at life.

The thing is, when I come home after a day of careering it up I always have better things to do. And a multitude of things at that. ‘Pack clothes away’ never makes it onto my to-do list. The problem is, I’m so used to the explosion of clothing that is my bedroom floor that the only time I notice it is when I’m looking for a specific piece of garb. Chances are, if it isn’t in the washing machine, or on the clean washing pile, it’s on my floor.

I’m not bothered if this is all there is to my floordrobe misfortune. But every now and then, when I’m in a how-does-my-life-compare-to-everyone-else’s funk, I start to worry a little. “How do other people do it?” I think. Help or no help, most people I know can always see their bedroom floor. Why is it so hard for me to keep mine visible? Am I limited in my capacity to do life right? Is launching myself from the threshold of my bedroom door to the comfort of my bed, over the mountain range of material, as good as it’s going get for me? God, I hope not.

So, where to from here, then? I’m no longer in denial. I’m owning my problem, what’s next? If this was rehab I’m pretty sure I would be detoxing. But because this is the real world, I can’t go cold turkey on clothing and walk around naked. Besides, that won’t really cure me of my quandary.

I’m dreading saying it, but there is a solution, and it’s twofold. Step one: I need to acknowledge that I’m not four anymore. Step two: I should probably (definitely) accept that the definition of being grown up is doing things that you don’t want to do, just because they have to get done.

Dammit. I hate it when that’s the answer.