Inconsistency 2.0

A few more thoughts to my last post on routine--or lack thereof.

Years ago, when I was in my formative 20s and living in New York, I was an acolyte to Anna Quindlen's column in the New York Times called "Life in the 30s." I was surprised today when I just found out that Quindlen wrote it for only two years ('86 to '88), because it had such a huge influence on me. And even though I've passed by my 30s altogether, it still does. For instance: I remember her column admitting that once when she was unable to find a pair of stockings for a luncheon, she resorted to wearing her husband's socks inside her boots. No one was the wiser, of course, and that was the point. 

But at 26 or 27, I was somewhat taken aback by Quindlen's small act of defiance. In Atlanta where I grew up--and particularly in my parents' house--propriety was one of the core values. We were drilled on how to make a bed (hospital corners and tucked in tightly enough that you could bounce a quarter off the mattress à la Air Force in which my dad was a colonel); we were schooled in setting a proper table (only put the forks on top of the napkin if you're at a picnic and the napkin would otherwise blow away); we were expected to thank-you notes in writing for birthday wishes merely delivered over the phone. 

Somehow I carried those lessons intact through my first marriage, (gasp) my divorce (the neighbors weren't happy), and on to Washington, where, as a divorceé I moved in with my boyfriend to my parents' utter horror (again, there were the neighbors to consider). That boyfriend, Ralph, is the one who really challenged these age-old notions. When I said I couldn't, wouldn't put pots on the table at a dinner party, he reminded me that the point was to gather friends around the table, not what the table looked like. And once those properly scrubbed Calphalon pans made their debut in the dining room, the rest of the edifice began to crumble, too.

Things really fell apart when we had children. Mismatched socks (not hidden by boots) are routine in our house. We're lucky if we can find matching shoes--or any shoes at all (sometimes we have to resort to mismatched flip-flops). 

All this improvisation bothers me a bit--I wonder if my children will ever know how to make a bed or if Julia will think that a flowered shirt and plaid pants actually match instead of being the only two clean pieces of clothing available. I did make Sam write thank-you notes for his presents--at least to his grandparents.

Mainly though, I've come to think the means justify the ends in this case: get out the door and get on with living. My take-away point from Quindlen two decades ago was that even the perfect life is imperfect.