Mess Theory

Doing the dishes by hand is a good time to wrestle with unanswerable questions. Like why am I doing my flatmates' dishes on a Saturday night?

I saw the notice when I returned from Paris.

Dear residents of flat 610,

We have inspected your flat for the second time and on both occasions have found the common area's to be dirty and badly cared for, no real improvements have been made...If the rooms are continually dirty and untidy there is possibility that you will attract pests of all sorts that will not only affect you but other tenants.

We had to clean, or else they'd do it for us at our expense.

I showed this to my flatmates. "Did you read that letter we got from Housing?" I asked.

"What letter?"

None of them had. Not that I could really fault them for it. The kitchen table was the base of a precarious architectural experiment that, at the moment, was defying gravity. Bowls with cherrios cemented in solidifying milk teetered on pots speckled with stale ramen. The only thing holding it together was the sticky patches on the table's surface that ripped pages out of any reading material I brought along for meals. Our mail slipped through the cracks and was devoured by whatever three-eyed mutants slobbered below.

Thing is, the note wasn't my problem because the mess wasn't my problem. If I had an isotope to label each molecule of dirt constructing this trash edifice, I'm pretty sure none would say "Eric." I had squeezed all my eating things into a single cupboard. I used one cup, one plate, one bowl, and one of each utensil. But here I was, wiping fossilized crumbs from the counters, peeling black molasses-like gunk from the stove top, and scrubbing dishes.

And the worst part was, I didn't know if my flatmates would even notice.

So as I scrubbed dishes the old-fashioned way, freezing my hands under the cold nozzle and burning them under the hot, I hashed out what I call Mess Theory.

Working definition of Mess: Something that deviates from order and into unattractive, unseemly chaos.

Mess Theory is nothing new. It describes our ability to adjust standards and comfort zones so that what I see as a Mess, you see as a normal order of things.

But here's the kicker: Gradually, as I invest time in forming connections, the Mess gets un-messy simply by adjusting to it. Call it cleaning with psychological powers. Eventually, I'll adapt to your perspective. No dishes have been cleaned. No cherrios liberated from their milky tombs. But the mess is gone. We both see what was previously a horrifying kitchen as a kitchen. Without ever lifting a broom.

I wasn't going to wait for Mess Theory to take hold of me. Lest I become that 44-year-old saxophone street performer. What he saw as a stepping stone to greatness (Paris hasn't discovered me because I don't want them to discover me yet), I saw as a trap door into financial and personal destruction. He lied to himself to hide the Mess of pain.

I think one of the reasons travel is so important is because it shields you from becoming a pawn to Mess Theory. As an international student, you're always on your toes. You're never given the full chance to adjust. You still are your "back home" self, with your own standards to measure Messes against. That's part of the reason why traveling to Guatemala this summer was so stunning: what natives saw as their lives, I saw as a Mess of poverty.

Here the Mess wasn't as grave, but it was enough to make my hands chap.

So I washed dishes. And hoped for happier times visiting Bath tomorrow.