Everybody’s Looking at Me

“That might have been nice, if my house had been sparkling clean like it usually is in time for Shabbos. But that Friday, for no reason at all, it had been particularly hectic, and my house still had signs of my chaotic day — toys and magazines strewn all over, the table scattered with napkins not yet folded, and a stack of dishes washed minutes before candlelighting drying on a rack.

“So there we were, my friend and I at the open door, and all I could think was, There’s no way in the world I can let my friend see my house the way it looks and have her find out the real truth about me, that most times I’m in control, but sometimes… I’m just not.”

Shoshana still winces at the memory. “As I sidestepped the mess and reluctantly led my friend into the living room, a part of me just wanted to hide in shame.”

Shoshana’s story could have been my own. Forget the specifics; the state of my house is something I’m also perpetually self-conscious about. As I am about my ability to write. And my (non) ability to juggle lots of things at once. And a myriad other things that, well, let’s just say I prefer not to mention.