One person's disorganization is another person's 'busy look'

My wife, Herself, is an exceptionally meticulous and organized woman. When folding something as basic as a kitchen towel, she performs maneuvers vastly more intricate than anything an origami master would ever attempt.

And that’s okay.

Each to their own. That’s what I always say.

The organizational level of my telephone booth-sized office in our home doesn’t quite conform to Herself’s expectations.

My idea of a proper work space is desk drawers jammed with supplies I haven’t used since I got sent back down to fifth grade. That was when I was a senior in high school. Really nice old crayons, although they’re a bit brittle now. Rusting paperclips. Lifetime supply of scratch paper. Important stuff.

The top of my desk, along with every other horizontal surface in my small space, holds precariously leaning towers of files and other less recognizable artifacts: Dried up ballpoint pens. Flyers from the neighborhood pizza place, the one which went out of business five years ago. Organic detritus which looks suspiciously like the petrified remains of a ham sandwich. Potato chip crumbs. Desiccated spiders.

I’m not a slob. I just prefer a busy work space. Makes me feel I have a lot going on. I don’t, of course, but appearance is everything. That’s why I always wear an argyle sweater over striped pants.

One morning I bent down, looking under my desk to check the time. I keep my small clock there because there isn’t room anywhere else. Anyway, I was overjoyed when I found a sock I hadn’t seen in several years.

When I proudly showed it to Herself, she shook her head in disdain. I get really squirmy when she does that, because it nearly always means I’m going to be hoisted on the pointed end of a sharp lecture.

In her gentle way, she barked, “Surely you realize I threw away the match long ago.”

I mean, what kind of response is that? The damn sock had only two holes in the toes. It was definitely a keeper.

I’ve decided to move all six articles of clothing I own into my office. Then I’m putting a lock on the door. That’ll show her. No way am I going to let her get her hands on my favorite frayed polo shirt!

Loren Fairman is a freelance humor writer living none-too-neatly, it seems, in the Federal Way area.


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