I am a neat grown-up. I like things to be sorted, organized, filed, dusted, wiped clean, washed, rinsed, whatever the adjective may be. The frequency with which I answer "What would you like to do this weekend?" with "I have some cleaning up to do" probably makes my husband want to whack me upside the head.

Despite this neurosis, I was not a neat kid. Just ask my parents. I dropped my belongings wherever suited me as I wandered the house - a backpack here, a sock there, a coat on the sofa, a book in the kitchen. But every so often, I would go on a cleaning binge that has since become my weekly ritual. And in these binges, I would yearn to turn my room into what I called a "catalog room:" matching furniture; a calming, sophisticated color palette; perfectly dusted surfaces; and a pair of dainty gloves perfectly placed on an ottoman beside the bed for effect. I wanted my space to be downright lovely. I'd even declare it with a British accent, which in my head, is downright lovely (though I'd wager my impersonation of a British accent is not-so-lovely).

I have no idea where I got this idea. My parents were not the type to litter the house with Better Homes & Gardens and Elle Decor and Pottery Barn catalogs, although they did - and still do - have an impressive collection of antiques, a seemingly perfect balance of hand-me-downs and purchased pieces.

No, this desire for a perfect living space - despite my tendency to make a mess of it immediate after cleaning - came from my own head, and it haunts me to this day. A chair out of place, dust on the table, mail on the counter. Clutter, distraction, chaos.

It's only recently, upon moving into what I can finally think of as my own space - no college dorm, no roommates (husband not withstanding), no temporary NYC closet-sized apartments - that I have started to question where this idea of lovely came from. Why is it that lovely, to me, meant that it must looked un-lived in? Why couldn't I accept that a towel on the counter, a bag on the chair, or a pillow crushed up was an acceptable kind of mess? Why couldn't I feel free to actually live in my own space, rather than making each room pose as if lived in?

That catalog room has been my ideal for so long that I fear I've lost my ability to define "lovely" for myself. And so, when I made myself a list of 26 things to accomplish by the time I turn 26 (with thanks to my dear friend Emily for inspiration), I included the creation of 100 lovely things. It's a goal. It's an effort to re-define what lovely is. It's my attempt to stop thinking in terms of the glossy pages of a catalog and start thinking in terms of how much I enjoy my own, imperfect, lovely space.