I am a member of the “almost” family. Somehow, I have come to live in a house with people who think that life is one big game of horseshoes: where bringing your dishes all the way up to the sink without actually putting them inside it still earns you a few points. In other words, just like in horseshoes, they want credit for a “leaner.” Although, really, the horseshoe analogy might make better sense if in the game of horseshoes you not only got credit for getting the shoe close to the peg, but simply for driving to the tournament (while leaving the horseshoes sitting in the trunk of your car, on your front porch, or–better yet–still to be purchased at the local sporting goods store).
In my house we have socks that “almost” made it to the laundry basket, cereal that “almost” got put back into the cupboard, and homework that “almost” got returned to the backpack. It wouldn’t bother me so much if these were things that just didn’t get done at all (ok, yeah: that would bother me, too), but it’s the fact that they are always almost accomplished that pushes me over the edge. Who takes the trouble to carry the cat’s food dish all the way over to the bag, fill it, and then leave it in the closet? Who gets undressed two feet away from the laundry hamper and then piles the dirty clothes on the floor?
Maybe I’ve been watching too many zombie movies, but there is just something unbelievably eery about walking into a house with the TV still on, every light blazing, and a moldering bowl of cereal perched precariously on the edge of the sink. I almost expect some ghoul to come leaping out of the hall closet and try to eat me, or rather, I would expect that if it wasn’t for the fact that all of the “almost” hung up winter coats on the floor would probably catch the ghoul around his rotting ankles and send him crashing to the “almost” swept floor.
Or, if I was at all religious (and wasn’t already all too cognizant of my family’s true nature), the pile of empty clothes and shoes stretched out beseechingly from front door to bathroom might leave me in grim apprehension that the Rapture had occurred while I was out buying vodka and lottery tickets, and somehow mysteriously (and mistakenly) left me behind.
Or I might even think that some terrible tragedy had struck my family; perhaps some debilitating virus that had come along and stricken them in the midst of their morning routines, making their only chances of survival to put the milk jug down right here, on the floor in front of the refrigerator, and, using their last tiny bit of strength, crawl to the hospital.
However, even if I was gullible enough to believe any of those theories, eventually they would all fall by the wayside once it had become obvious that the zombie infestation/imminent Rapture/viral attack did not also cause a subsequent almost finishing of donuts, almost cessation of smacking their little brothers on the backs of their heads, or almost finishing of video games. (Although, now that I think about it, I don’t believe that I’ve ever seen anyone actually finish a video game in my life; instead, they just seem to keep moving on to the next level forever and ever in a never-ending cycle of “war” and “not so much war.” Kind of like a certain “War on Terror.”).
Actually, maybe it’s the “War on Terror” that offers the best explanation. Think about it: to a child that has been raised under the current administration, the idea of hanging a “Mission Accomplished” sign next to a half-made bed might make pretty good sense.