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Perfectionism goes out the door 

     I didn't make my bed today. How come? Just thought I'd skip a day. . . One thing about getting older, you get more relaxed about life. My niece learned early—she told me years ago she never makes her bed. She said no one's going in her bedroom and she's just going to get back in bed that night, so why make it?

     I haven't learned her lesson too well; I still make my bed most every day. Mostly because I like to look at it all prim and pretty when I come in the room. But that's just me.

     On the other hand, I've given up my life-long habit of folding the towels in threes. They look just as nice hanging from the towel bar folded in half and it's a whale of a lot quicker to do it that way. Life's short, right?

     What else? There are the swim towels sitting on the piano bench, waiting for tomorrow when Paul goes to his swim lesson at the Y. They don't belong there, but it saves me time when it's time to leave. Especially because the footplates to his wheelchair are waiting beneath the bench. Easy to grab everything at once.

     My husband, in heaven these days, would love to see this. He used to throw a few open magazines and rumpled up napkins onto the pristine coffee table just before company was due to arrive. When I went to put them away, he told me the house should look lived-in. Without his helpful input—messing things up—he said the living room looked like a waiting room in a doctor's office.

     He'd also love the mess I have on the rolling cabinet between the kitchen and the TV room these days: bills to be paid; insurance policies to be looked over; coupons—mostly about to expire—a few stray business cards, an unanswered letter. All waiting for action. Good luck with that.

     Makeup. . . My mascara has gone the way of the wind. After fighting the magic wand that would make my eyelashes flutter and allure—but didn't; after trying new "lush, extra volume" mascaras—that did nothing, the truth hit. "I don't have any eyelashes!" Well, I do. But they're a bit on the stubby side and nothing, I mean nothing, is going to make them so sensuously long and dark that I can flutter them at you and watch your amazed reaction.

     I could get fake eyelashes, yes. But they'd be fake and you'd know it. Especially now that I've totally given up on the mascara. Plus, the mere thought of gluing them on in a straight line, equal on both sides—my eyes aren't even equal on both sides!—is enough to make me shake. I don't know if "gluing" is the right word; maybe I should have said "applying them" or "sticking them" or "pasting them." Anyway, my eyes are shaded and outlined—no lashes to speak of.    

     My days are relaxed and fun. If I don't pick up the old magazines off the coffee table; if I leave the clutter on the rolling cabinet; if heaven forbid, I leave my bed unmade, what's it to you? At least my house looks lived in—which makes it not just a house, but a home—at least according to my husband in heaven.

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