Let “Civilized” Shit Go

Last night we had no clean, dry bath towels, so I gave my kids beach towels to use after their showers. I had a twinge of, “Oh, my God, when will I ever be a full grown-up, what is wrong with us?” and then I thought…why am I stressing? First of all, the kids don’t give a shit, and it’s only us in the house, so any audience I’m trying to impress is strictly imagined. Plus, they’re towels. They serve the function I needed served. No one had to get dry by shaking off like a bear, or rolling around on the ground like a horse. What a weird social contract I subconsciously signed that made using certain towels only in their intended capacity indicative of my maturity and skills at adulthood.

I do this for all kinds of things. How mortifying if someone sees me in my pajama pants instead of my day pants…why? They cover the same stuff, they’re weather appropriate, they’re actually very similar.

Who made these pants rules? I want a word.

Or how the outside and inside of our house must be clean, organized, “presentable” all the time or I’ve failed. That my kids must behave at a certain volume in a certain normalized capacity or I’ve failed. I feel actual fear when I’m falling under these expected markers. I fear….I’m not sure what I fear, exactly, but I’ve definitely been taught to fear something. Some judgement about my ability to…