The sink in our upstairs bathroom broke. To clarify, the pipe underneath the sink in our upstairs bathroom broke, which caused a steady stream of water to puddle at the base of our vanity along with the Lysol wipes, hand soaps, and bottle of toilet bowl cleanser. Eventually, the puddle must have reached critical mass and spilled onto our bathroom floor, creating a puddle there, too -- one that I stepped in, which is how I discovered the leak.
My husband called his friend, a handyman for a local apartment complex, to look at the pipe. The next morning while I was at work, his friend came, diagnosed the problem, repaired the pipe, and went on his way. Simple.
I came home, pleased with the quick fix and how I wouldn't need to brush my teeth at my bathtub spigot that evening.
Then I looked around our bedroom for a moment, knowing that our handyman friend must have walked through it to reach the bathroom. The bed was made, but the rest of the room was a mess. Because I had been painting my oldest daughter's room, all of her belongings had been transferred to our room. Unwieldy mounds of her bed linens, stuffed animals, and books were stacked on top of our own furniture. Her mirror, bulletin board, and pictures leaned against our bedroom walls.
Clutter everywhere.
As I looked around, I wondered if my husband had thought to explain the mess to his friend as he directed him to our bathroom. I didn't ask, though, because I know the answer would have been no.
He wouldn't have said, "You see, Robin was painting Reese's room, so we had to move all of her stuff into here. Please don't mind the mess."
He wouldn't have said, "Sorry, I know this place is a disaster."
He wouldn't have offered an apology or explanation, because there was no apology or explanation needed. He knows that it's our house and we live there. He knows that sometimes rooms get painted, and possessions temporarily get relocated into piles in other rooms, and pipes break, and messes naturally occur, and other people witness them.
In other words, he wouldn't have offered an apology because he understands that people live in houses, and living can be a messy prospect. And because he's a man.
In contrast, I've noticed how quickly apologies are issued when a woman lets another woman into her home -- sometimes even before the guest steps through the front doorway. Sorry that there's still a half-eaten waffle and syrup dripped on the kitchen table, even though it's almost dinner. Sorry my kids have dropped their socks everywhere. I'm just warning you... this place is a mess.
Our apologies and explanations suggest that it's a moral failing if throw blankets aren't neatly draped across the back of couches, or mail is unsorted on the counter, or shoes are left at the front door, or unrinsed dinner plates still sit in the kitchen sink.
We apologize to each other for living in our own spaces, as if this is wrong, as if real life shouldn't take place within the walls of our homes. At the same time, we all know that real life does take place in our homes -- and, sometimes, real life involves a broken pipe, a painting project, and a bedroom in a state of upheaval.
Best yet, real life also involves friends who are willing to come at a moment's notice and help when you're in a pinch, without caring whether your bedroom is messy.
That's real life. When no apology or explanation is needed, let's stop giving them.
Let's give other people the gift of knowing that our houses look just like their houses: lived in.
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