Why does it look much better with the others than with me?
In the first apartment (ok, it was just a room) I thought it was the money. I flipped through a few lifestyle magazines in between and was sure: with a few euros more, it would be so pretty with me. The first bigger room, the karma just was not right and when I moved in with my boyfriend, the huge Plasma TV destroyed the ambience. 10 years and 5 apartments later, I have nothing left but to admit: It's up to me. I just do not have any talent. And somehow I will not be neater.
Meanwhile, we live in a development area of a suburb. Yes, one could have guessed, but I thought it was just a cliché: There live people who use tablecloths. Ironed, I mean. As my neighbors begin to invite each other (including me), I think first: "How nice!". The awakening comes in the form of a napkin-cutlery-tea-set-flower arrangement that takes my breath away. And thats just the beginning. On the dust-free country chests of drawers are small vases next to the same color picture frames, which contain photos of children's photos. Black and white, of course, so that the color concept is not disturbed. "Tunisia," says my neighbor when she sees my eyes. "The world is so exciting, chaotic and original." Chaotic and original, that's also in the direct neighborhood, I think, but say nothing.
Even the inherited fits the device? how does she do that?
The coffee is served, we get milk and sugar from small containers that she inherited from her grandmother. Coincidentally, they fit perfectly. At home, not even the tone of the floor matches the color of the wall. With coffee you quickly find a topic of conversation: Perfectionism. Do you all know. They can relax only when everything has its order, when the dog hair has fallen victim to the vacuum cleaner, the pots are stowed dry in the closet. I listen. Luckily nobody asks what I have to say.
I would really like to blaspheme suburbanity and exaggerated design, but it does not work. As much as I resist, the order and aesthetics of this house makes my chaos-ridden eyes calm down. I feel really comfortable in this neighborly parallel world, in which everything has its place, in which the space karma knows no "Oh-God-come-like-panic" and no one is ashamed of the disorder on the shelf, the one on the fly did not become master.
Then it's time to say goodbye. I reluctantly return my guest house shoes and try to memorize how the pictures are arranged in the hallway. Be disturbed when memorizing, as the host asks me about the loft conversion. It would certainly be fun to set up a new room. "Sure," I lie and think of our living room, which impresses with a non-functioning furniture concept and still bare walls. The sofa is too dark and too big, the table too small, the books on the shelf are not standing, they are lying, so there is no room on the shelf for decoration. It's better this way too, because I have a penchant for bad purchases. What looks good in shops loses any aesthetics in our rooms. Am I missing a gene?
And then she just stands in front of the door
A week later, my neighbor is at the door. Just because. She wanted to look at the expansion for a moment, because they are superior and so on. I get hot and cold, I want an invisible cape, as she sits down after the already embarrassing inspection of our completely dirty shell between unfolded laundry on the sofa too large. Next to us the ironing board. On the table a laptop, two old coffee cups and a stack of mail. "Am I disturbing?" She asks confused. "No, I just read a book anyway!", I say and realize only after the sentence that this must have been my Image-Todesstoß. Then I notice her look. Therein lies no arrogance, no disgust, no arrogance, but deep admiration. "I wish I could too," she sighs and begins to talk. Being able to relax only when everything is perfect basically means to yourself No way to relax. She would also like to read a book again. But there is still so much to do. Always. I think for a while, then I go to my shelf and take out my favorite book. Then I make ourselves coffee, which I serve in a Mickey Mouse mug and a stolen mulled wine cup.
In the end it was good too? otherwise good, but good
Two hours later, we are still in chaos, awakening with satisfaction from the worlds of our reading. "May I come back soon?", Asks my neighbor. "Only if sometimes I'm allowed to drink coffee at your table with the ironed tablecloth," I say.She hugs me laughing and I'm happy for the first time in my life about my chaos gene, because it has forced me the talent to relax in chaos. And I notice: She liked me a lot. Otherwise good. But good!
