Relax, don't do it

Twice this week I've been too exhausted at night to wash my face before bed. Twice! Rock and Roll Grammarian is many things, but slothful about hygiene is not among them.

Last night, not only did I choose not to wash my face, but I also apparently chose not to change out of my clothes before dragging my tired body into the loft. I awoke fully clothed, minus my shoes and one sock, with my cellphone lying conspicuously open. This sort of thing doesn't happen in the House of Grammarian, or at least it didn't used to.

For years and years, until I moved to New York, I was particular about the condition of my clothes. If I was leaving the house, everything I had on had to be ironed. Wrinkles troubled me nearly to the point of distraction. Ask my friends, and they'll tell you how many times I offered to iron stuff for them before we went out. Perhaps this was annoying. I do not know.

Since I've moved to New York, I've had to adjust my standards some, primarily because my apartment isn't big enough for a full-size ironing board. I have one of those mini ones you place on the floor or on a table. My iron also is very wee. This setup not only makes ironing much more difficult, but it also takes almost all of the joy out of it for me.

So, I do not always iron things to perfection before I leave the house anymore. I have left sleeves unpressed. I have left pant legs uncreased. I have just put the T-shirt on straight from the drawer. And? I have not died because of it.

Oddly enough, in a town considered stressed out and uptight, I am becoming less so. If I leave the house and realize I grossly misjudged how well my clothes match, no matter. If things don't go as planned, no matter (usually) -- whatever happens next, wherever you go next, whomever you meet next can be and often are better anyway. If someone bumps into me at the subway station, no matter -- it didn't hurt.

So, yeah. I think I'll go wash my face.