Irresponsible

Things are happening at an alarming rate. They always do this time of year. I love fall, but I hardly have time to soak in the colors, smells, and abundance of pumpkin-spice flavored-everything. Volleyball is busy. Work is busy. Of course I decided to begin our kitchen remodel project (why not? There's only ONE MILLION other things going on). 

I want to take a trip with Brett to Red Wing, or Wabasha, or somewhere beautiful by the Mississippi. I want to see the fall colors, drive along the bluffs, picnic by the river and just enjoy. I want to lie in the grass, gaze at the sky, and savor the way the air feels cool—free of both the heavy humidity of summer and the piercing chill of winter.

Red Wing, August 2012. Gorgeous. I'm nostalgic for our anniversary adventure a year ago.

Will this happen? I don't know. There's always Breaking Bad to catch up on. We only have one bathroom, and I still can't keep it clean. The dishes pile up in the sink. We continue to eat out because our cupboards are devoid of groceries—when I'm exhausted after practice, I'd much rather lounge on the couch and watch Sons of Anarchy on Netflix then maneuver the aisles of Hyvee.

Sometimes I want to tell myself to just suck it up and be an adult. Go the freaking grocery store already. Wash the dishes. Scrub the toilet. Stop binge-watching Orange is the New Black and eating Doritos instead of meals. 

And then I tell myself that as an adult, I can choose to be totally irresponsible sometimes. We can go get Dairy Queen Blizzards every night of the Buy One Get One for 99¢ promotion. Because dang it, I ate my fair share of broccoli as a kid. I drank my freaking milk.

The point is, don't come to my house. It's a mess. There are drawings of volleyball lineups everywhere. We have half-stained cabinets taking up our entire basement. I haven't put my laundry away in two weeks. Our sink cannot fit one more dish in it. The bathroom counter is sealed in a thick layer of hairspray and dusted with what appears to be a large amount of cocaine, but is actually baby powder (oh yeah, I also don't have time to shower, so I just dump baby powder in my hair and let it do its de-greasing magic).

This is what being 25 and childless looks like. Pants suits and pumps are a lie. Reality is party pizzas, mismatched socks, and a whole lot of this stuff:

Which I always call an Arnold Palmer, but people look at me like I'm crazy. That's all it is, right? Come on, Snapple.