The Bug Man Cometh

We have a bug man who comes to our house about four times a year.  It seems like more than that to me because in the last couple of years, I've noticed a feeling of dread when he's going to come. 

Don't get me wrong:  he is delightful.  Friendly, helpful, seems to care about the fact that we live in the country, so always leaves a healthy supply of mouse poison.  For this, I am eternally grateful.

But every time I get the message on the phone that he's going to be in our area and will be at our house.....a little knot comes into the pit of my stomach.  Because there are no secrets from the bug man.  He starts in the basement.  Every time.  This is not bothersome to me.  It's not a finished basement, so we use it primarily for storage and exercise equipment.  Nothing to hide. 

Then he goes to the main floor.  Again...this doesn't really trouble me, except that sometimes, after he's gone, I realize that the family skivvies were left to dry in the laundry room....but then I remember...it's probably nothing he hasn't seen before.  But then.....he goes upstairs.  Upstairs to the rooms that no one ever really goes to except us, because they're not part of the activity center of the house.  The rooms that get much more easily cluttered because there's no fear of being discovered....except for these four times a year.  And once more when the handyman comes.  He's got our number too.

Both Scott (the bug man) and Steve (the handyman) have seen (dun Dun DUN) my craft room.  Or, as I have been known to call it, the room of doom.  It has become the dumping ground for the boxes that have been worked on, then thrown back together in a desperate attempt to tidy things up when company is coming.

Each time he's here, it's early in the day.  There's barely time for a shower before he's here normally...but today was just a little different.  He came just a couple hours later than normal, so I was thrilled that the beds were made, the laundry was put away, life was pretty good upstairs.  Except for the room of doom.  This time I was awake enough to at least mention it.  "I'm sorry," I said.  "It might be hard to find a path up there."

And for a little moment, I kind of hated myself.  Sorry you can't find a path there, buddy.  I'm just a mess of a housewife.  June Cleaver doesn't live here.  If she did, she would probably really piss me off.  In all her skinny, perfect, obnoxiousness.  Did I mention, Mr. Bug-man, that while my husband has been out of town, we've been eating TV dinners?  That's right.  And the kitchen is still a hot mess.  You're probably not surprised that we've had fruit flies.  I wonder if you think....

And that's where I have to stop myself.  Because that's what it comes down to every time. 

I wonder what he thinks.
I wonder what she thinks. 
I wonder what they think. 
I bet they think I'm awful. 
I bet my husband is secretly wondering if there's some kind of class he can send me to.
I bet my daughter will wonder the same things once she gets a more complicated thought system going, unless I get my act together before her long term memory starts really humming.  I've still got time, right?....
And on.
And on.

It's a constant and ridiculous thing I do to myself.  "What they must think of me."
It's a tyranny and it's something that I cannot shake.  The fear of the thoughts of others.  It's ridiculous when I read it in black and white.  It's something I'll never ever be able to control, and  something I'll never ever be able to fix.  
It's an enemy without form; no body, no shape.  Just the wonderings of what's going on behind those eyes that have glanced inside my home and seen that it's less than perfection.

So today, instead of declaring war on the fear of the thoughts of others, instead, I take a single step to make my own thoughts a little more positive.  That, I am sure, will chase away the worry about what others think of me.

Today I had an okay day.  Not fabulous, not horrible.  My daughter and I watched way more television than we should have, but it was ridiculously rainy outside--not even worthy of going out in the car kind of rain.  So tomorrow I'll try to do better.  A few more puzzles to educate her little developing brain.  A few more flashcards.

While she slept, I did some office work for the new part-time job that I started.  About an hour and a half worth of getting acquainted with the goings-on.  Not fantastic, but not a bad showing, either.  Tomorrow I'll try to do better.  And that's all I can ask of myself for this moment.