I try to be lazier, messier, and more nonchalant than I actually can ever be.
I consider myself about 90 percent a responsible adult; the other 10 percent rather unmistakably emotionally or ambitiously driven (ie. when I try to carry too many things at once and end up dropping something, which Cliff can attest to several incidents that fall under this tenth percentile, consequently disappointing him with my poor decisions) thus, obviously, are equivalent characteristics of an irresponsible adult.
I try to be late, you know, "fashionably late," as they say, and I still somehow end up being 10 minutes early. I'm only late when something unexpected happens, and not because I didn't measure enough time for me to get ready or leave the house.
I see a young woman on the train. She looks irrevocably cool with her dark sunglasses, black hat, and black ankle boots, but coupled with joggers and an old t-shirt. Hair probably a day or two old. She scrambles around looking for a dollar to give the beggar (who specifically went up to this woman for money even though she wasn't paying any attention to him since she had earphones in).
Women who don't wash their hair, who don't have to change their shirts when they wake up in the morning, and ultimately don't care to carry helpful organizational things like wallets, always catch my attention. Just cash seemingly stuffed into compartments in the black hole of their bags. They have cash folded and unaccounted for in multiple purses. Lost, then found later. So I start trying to be unorganized like them. Then I realize I don't have a place to put my coins. I have so many tri-folded bills that it's better to keep breaking 20s rather than spending time counting and unfolding the singles I have here and there and everywhere. When I finally gave up the unruly wallet-less life and went back to my wallet, I only had questionable stacks of those unused dollar bills to fill its pockets, weak and wrinkled from all of its folding and rummaging through the other contents of my big black bag.
I'm definitely not the most organized, nor do I ever care to be. Early on in the year, I received an email about a church retreat, and after responding to it, I added a post script particularly for the sender regarding a previous but tangential conversation we had. She was evidently so upset by this irrelevant post script, that she copied and pasted my post script to a new email with a new subject line and started the email off with, "Sorry, I have major OCD issues."
She turned out to be one of those people who proudly claim self-diagnosed OCD, which is one thing I never really understood about people who do that. I suppose it's much easier to describe a person as "OCD" than coming up with adjectives for a "neat freak," which is funny because people with OCD aren't necessarily always "neat freaks." It's the equivalent of people using "depressed" and "depressing" to describe a dark cloud of sadness, except most people aren't proud to be depressed. But, like using "gay" as the equivalent of "stupid," they're all equally inappropriate. I have said all three things in my life many times incorrectly, and possibly catch myself still doing so (except the latter example).
Anyway, I guess my point is that I wish I cared less sometimes.
