October 27, 2004
Neat Freak

Back off.  The time has come for the “neat freaks” of the world (and your numbers are legion) to give it a rest.  Those of us  “un-encumbered” by the compulsive need to have everything in its place or drawer need the rest of the world to cut us some slack.  

For example A go no further than the bathroom vanity.  The countertop is huge.  The drawers below the sink are quite small.  So why is it necessary the toothpaste, the toothbrush, the shaving gear and the deodorant go back in that teeny-tiny drawer when all will be used again within 24 hours?  Don’t you compulsive neat nicks realize the wasted motion and total in-efficiency involved in the daily opening of that drawer and the absolute silliness of being required to return any and all just used toiletries in the name of an orderly counter top?  

Those of us with a less than fastidious nature could deal with the carping were it limited to the bathroom.  But no.  There are also the continual reminders about policing the area around the TV chair.  Why shouldn’t running shoes, Birkenstocks, bike shoes, the dress shoes I wore last Saturday night, the latest issue of Sports Illustrated plus the cereal bowl from last night’s TV newscast remain next to my chair in front of the tube.  Most likely I haven’t read the Sports Illustrated cover to cover, I’m probably going to wear every pair of those shoes sometime this week, and I will take the cereal bowl and spoon to the dishwasher the next time I go past the kitchen.  Unless I forget. 

Which brings up another subject.  In answer to the oft-asked question, “Who picked up after you before I came along?” No one did.   In bachelor days long ago the world was at my feet.  Right there underneath the dirty laundry.   When left to my own devices the neat freaks of the world termed my bachelor pad “an instant slum”.  I preferred to term the random clothes, shoes and previously worn socks randomly spaced about the living quarters as  “eclectic”. 

A friend, actually a brother in the bond of slightly less than tidy, had a sign in his work cubicle reading, “A clean desk is the sign of a sick mind.”  The same thought applies to garages.  Just because once our car is parked the drivers door can only be opened halfway due to the location of the golf clubs and while the route from the car to the kitchen door is a bit of a maze around and through the step ladder, two bicycles, three empty suitcases (I know they‘re supposed to go on the shelf where I promise to put them when the Bronco game is over) what’s the big deal?  Anyone walking from the car to the kitchen door has, at a minimum, thirty seconds before the garage door opener light clicks off leaving plenty of time to make it inside the house.  Just because all of a sudden the garage goes dark as Egypt and a person crashes into the loaded re-cycle sacks that were supposed to be placed against the wall while loaded down with groceries is not my fault.  The grocery carrier just needs to learn to pick up the pace between car and kitchen.  

You have no idea how un-relenting the pressure is for yours truly to police his area.  Twice a year the neat nick in residence hosts her bridge club.  And twice a year she is insistent I clean up my desk.  In an effort to please I remove   everything from the top of my desk, place it in a cardboard box, then place the box under the desk.  Wouldn’t you know it, last week it was bridge again and this time she complained about the five cardboard boxes under the desk.