The black sock

Yesterday, at 4:35, as soon as the sun pressed itself hard through the front window, I saw a fingerprint, an unknown tiny smear, and a wing, perhaps from a fly.  Yes, I am always compelled at that dreaded moment of the day to grab the Windex bottle and paper towels, but window washing is just so overwhelmingly annoying, I was proud of myself when I turned around and pretended I didn’t see what I had just saw.  Anyway, I knew I would forget all about the four alarm fire if I could hold on for approximately 53 minutes till the sun went down, and I did, but later today at that approximate time, if again the sun is blaring, let’s see, by calculation at 4:37 and 30 seconds, I can’t say for sure if I will be able to make it through another day without my finger on the spray bottle trigger.  Maybe the clouds will roll in and I’ll catch a break. Don’t look at me like I’m pathetic. I like things clean and I like rules. Is it a crime when I’m at a loss for something to do, like now, that the very last thing I want to do becomes something I must do? Except windows. You see? Maybe I’m not so pathetic. Drawers are another story. Even there I have made progress, but still, I admit a disorganized drawer makes me unhinged. But how would it get disorganized in the first place, you might ask, if it bothers me so much?  Simple answer. It’s not my own drawers that are disorganized. In my drawers, each shirt is folded uniform to the next, stacked evenly, and nothing is ever overstuffed. The drawers of my princely husband and my mutinous teenage son are another story. But now I have been banned from touching them. Teaming up against me one day, several years ago, right out of the play book of one of those alternative intervention scenes, they sat me down and told me that my so called organizational skills were not their problem and were interpreted by them as an invasion of privacy. Imagine that. Refrigerator, kitchen cabinets, bathroom drawers and anything else communal, they have given me a get out of jail free pass card for total control, convivially impartinging the words, “Have at it, knock yourself out!” But when it comes to their own personal clothing drawers and so called junk drawers, and, my husband sternly added before the top secret call to order was complete, “The garage shelves, too. Keep your gnarly greedy little fingers to yourself!” When my son was little and during the early years of our marriage, I always put away their clothes and organized their drawers. But then at some point they started paying attention, accusing me of throwing things out, because they were right. Did they think that I could just stuff and stuff their stuff until the drawers decided on their own to explode? And there is no way I can leave things on top of the dresser without it driving me bonkers, but for the most part I am proud to say I have learned to treat their drawers like a window. In my son’s room it doesn’t matter as much. I can just shut his door. But my husband’s dresser is in my face after I put away my own clothes. Truthfully he’s been pretty good about my demands, at least in this one particular knotty affair. When he comes home, he goes right to our bedroom and puts away his pile of clothes, then he takes off his suit, hangs up his tie, places his shoes on the shoe rack, and puts on comfy clothes, all before he says hello. That’s love. I know, because I used to watch his every move to make sure he did things right, but I forgot to mention, he put a stop to that too during a subsequent pow wow.  So see? I can change and learn to oblige and let their drawers be. But here’s the dilemma at hand. Just now, I found one of my husband’s socks left in the dryer from yesterday, by me! How could I be so utterly foolish. The one that got away. This abomination has never happened to me before. One poor sock has a partner waiting for it in his drawer. I just know it. Funny, my husband didn’t mention it last night when he knows that sock needs its other, so I ask you, is it such a big deal for me to open up his sock drawer and return this one lonely sock to its significant other? How could this be wrong? Oh boy, I’ll take your silence as a yes. I’m going in. What a rush. Christ! The socks in here are livin’ la vida loca! How does he manage? Let’s see. Can I back away and pretend like I didn’t just see this mishmash, and turn my back on my frazzle freak? Too late. Hmmmm, where is that pesky black sock in this sea of black socks? How can he live like this and not want my prowess?  Really. Must I dig? What’s this? A small box? It’s not my birthday and besides the last time Howard bought me a piece of jewelry, was just after I popped the boy-bun out of my oven. Oh. A tennis bracelet. This is definitely not for me. Howard knows I do not wear bracelets because they interfere with the many intricate daily tasks my hands perform. Who is this for? No. Could it be? Why on earth would he want someone other than me?