i want to adopt a dog.

“santa fe animal shelter dogs” i type into my search engine, simultaneously thrilled by what feels like an illicit action, and looking over my shoulder guiltily at the fear of someone seeing me input this query. do not be fooled: i was not raised to consider this option for at least three more years, with at least two more figures in my yearly salary, and a significant reduction in my endless need to travel. my mother raised me right: “i will not adopt a dog until i can give that dog a good home,” is a mantra i repeat to myself a minimum of once a day. even the simple action of looking at the dogs online that need a home feels like something i should be punished for. but something inside of me has changed.

i am a product of a lifelong struggle of perfectionism. at age 9: why jump on the trampoline when you could sit still and not disturb the atoms of the universe around you? muss up my hair, my clothes – things i did not necessarily care about, but things i wanted to keep unchanged. at age 12: why dress in anything other than comfortable jeans and a sweatshirt, who needs color and variation? at age 16: anything outside of straight A+’s and perfect attendance and early bedtimes is unreasonable, it is not needed. it grew from there. consistently i have hunted and acted in the interest of perfectionism, simplicity, and need, eliminating want and excess and imperfection and mess. a day where i did not make my bed left me distracted and uncomfortable.

but i have evolved over the years. the extent of these changes is a topic for another time, but recently i have felt myself in a new period of extreme growth and change and nourishment and expansion, and this i have come to discover:

i am enamored with the joys that come from a messy existence.

the connection that comes from a conversation with a stranger. the peace i find opening a book in a public space, if only for a minute or two. the warmth of an unplanned latte on a late summer afternoon. backpacking with fellow women and being unapologetically gassy and open about our bowel habits. leaving my bed unmade. asking someone to repeat what they just said. not making my bed every morning. throwing a warm jacket over a mismatched outfit, for the comfortable feeling rather than the appearance. scratching out a word in my journal in pen, instead of tearing the page and starting over.

even sitting down to write this took some motivation: i just have words floating in my mind, no entire idea or direction for what i want to say. and therefore, i am acting on it. ideas must not be perfect or complete to be worth pursuing. if anything, life has repeatedly shown me that the less perfect and the less complete the thought is, it is all the more worth acting upon.

thus, here i am considering the reality of adopting a dog too early in my life, and the worthwhile struggle and ensuing companionship that would ensue. i find the idea romantic, to do something imperfect. to have a decision in my life that alters my next actions, a large stone in the river that alters its course. the river will find a way, there is just a slight obstruction that may make me stronger in the future. how delicious, to adopt a dog, bring them home, to sit across from each other: “well, here we are. i’ve got you and you’ve got me and we’re going to figure it out.”

so, i want to adopt a dog. will i? i probably will not, not until i really can afford any emergency that might arise, and to guarantee a yard for my future best friend to round around in, or perhaps until i find a stray on the side of the road. but what has changed, is that i actually want to adopt a dog, i want to live a messy life, and that’s the substance of a life worth living.