Friday, April 22, 2011

A place for everything, and everything in its place.

I really like order.

I like neat little piles of similar items. I like everything tucked away (preferably out of site) in its own place. My environment reflects my state of mind. If papers and books are strewn about my desk at work, I'm probably deep in two or ten projects at once, and am suffering from an overcrowded mind. If Husband has left piles of half-opened mail and old receipts and god knows what else laying scattered about, I will scurry around, piling everything in one central location at his designated spot on the kitchen table (and hint rather blatantly that he should make the pile disappear).

Don't get me wrong. It isn't so much the clean part that I desperately need, it is the order. I can frankly go for months without scrubbing toilets, but I have trouble leaving the house in the morning if all of the dry dishes from the night before aren't put away. I cannot stomach going more than a week without sweeping crumbs and lint and dust from the dark hardwood of the first floor. Towels must be neatly folded and the couch pillows should be straight. I am forever lining up shoes near the front door.

All of this is probably some kind of violent reaction to growing up with my mother, who tends to leave a path of clutter and half-finished projects in her wake (one of her few character flaws, I promise; my mother is the sweetest person in the world).

Some children rebel from their parents by getting dyed and inked and pierced and arrested.

I cleaned.

So isn't it just so perfect, so orderly, to discover something cleverly labeled and situationally apt? Last weekend I was able to take a glorious shopping trip to The State Capitol with my sistercousin. I found a pair of dress pants from Express (on sale!) that magically fit my oddly-shaped lower half (aside from requiring hemming up, which is standard for unfortunately statured people like myself).
The pants had a nice pinstripe and looked pretty durable for years of work days and business meetings.
I got the pants home, took off the price tags, and what did I happen to find on the label? My job title. Seriously, I was delighted. Isn't that just a pretty little package all tied up in a bow just for me?
A place for everything, and everything in its place. Ah, peace.

2 comments:

Mike Koscielny said...

Express does make a quality trouser... I adore them... Unfortunately, they call mine the Producer.

KittyMarie said...

That. Is. Hilarious.