my room isn't messy. it was just rehearsing.

I seem to have interrupted my room.

There is a perfectly folded pair of jeans sitting on the floor in front of my dresser, slightly askew and six inches outside of the drawer in which it belongs. It tried hard. Good attempt, jeans.

I'll put them away in a minute.

My nail polishes are doing a loud, splashy number across my dresser right now, and the red's looking a bit annoyed at being interrupted in the middle of the big number. They must have been using the bobby pins as props, probably once again making up for their inability to do jazz hands by adding a bit of baton twirling to the mix. Last time it was Q-tips, but frankly, I'm just thankful they all have their lids on tight. Twirling and wet nail polish don't go well; even the matte lacquers  just don't have the technique to pull off those stunts.

The hair dryer is thankful that the dancing has stopped. It's fallen on its side at the edge of the dresser, exhausted and spent from scolding the nail polishes all afternoon about their glittery shenanigans. The straightener doesn't even care anymore; it's just contemplating whether a tumble back behind the bureau -- where those polishes never go -- would be a better end to the day. Poor fellows. 

The lamp, like its cousin over at Pixar, is watching all of this with something between curiosity and shock. Mostly curiosity, I like to think, as it is a good-natured and non-judgmental sort of a lamp. It just has a habit of craning its neck in odd ways, no matter how many times I gently remind it that nice lamps do not crane so oddly. Perhaps I should be harsher.

The pillows have clearly been jumping on the bed again. Stupid things. I keep putting them back at the head, plump and neat against the headboard, and they keep mussing the covers and winding up all over the room. I don't know what their problem is, because when I jump on the bed, I don't land on the other side of the room.

I suppose I'd better put them back, too.

The amount of dancing in here amazes me, because while the polishes were perfecting Broadway (this is the last time I buy all that glitter), the shoes seem to have tap danced right out of their home in the closet into a scattered row along the floor --  except for Ben's flip flops, which are a little insecure with stage fright and have tucked themselves halfway under the bed. I really ought to have a word with the shoes about their formation; this doesn't remotely resemble a line, and they need to get better about partner work. My sneakers are in opposite corners and it's totally throwing off the aesthetic of the whole thing. I hope they weren't mocking Ben's flip flops again.

And then there are the clothes. If they've been dancing, it's been in a Martha Graham meets Krumpin sort of way. I think they're free spirits, the clothes, and all of them -- the hoodie, the tanks, the sweater, and even the sock that snuck under Ben's pillow -- have just been doing their own primal thing today. "Have fun and stay out of the laundry basket!" is not a bad adage for life. I suppose I can't blame them. I'll let them have their party and stay on the floor for tonight.

Except for the jeans. They just want to go home and be safe. And after all of today's wild tomfoolery, I can't say that I blame them.