I prefer my food to be served in equally divided proportions. None of it must be touching. I think it's this OCD thing I have going on. Or perhaps it's something I picked up in grade school. I remember my food being served on those pink rectangular trays that had all those little divided sections for your main course, fruits, vegetables and dessert. (I've only now just thought of this.) That might explain why I don't like my silverware touching my food.
This year I made a resolution to manage my sock drawer more better. I have eliminated 5 socks from the 90 pairs I already have stuffed in, around and on top of my dresser and in the four drawers I use for them. Three of the socks still haven't made it into the trash can yet because I have placed them into a throw away pile that I may or may not use. I haven't decided on that yet. I did however get rid of a couple dozen pairs thanks to my wife. I told Lois the girls could use some of them to clean the thin film of algae building up on the surface of their outdoor swimming pool. Only in my mind I thought that she was only going to take like five socks. I had no idea that she was going to empty out one of my drawers. I'm still a bit restless over that one, but I will survive.
Now...I can admit that I have an OCD thing happening. I was just unaware of it. When I used to walk the girls to school I should have caught on. That stepping on a crack and breaking your mom's back was a dead give away. And then there was all the counting. And had Lois never mentioned our daughters own behavior, I'd have just gone on living my life still unsuspecting. That is until this year. This year things changed.
One day at work I had to go out to the press and drop off some proofs. Had I not already been aware of my behavior, then I might have been horrified when I suddenly realized what I was doing. And as it was, I was horrified anyways; my suspicions just softened the blow.
As I moved among the presses making my way back to my department, I reached out and touched something. It was a post. I took two more steps and I did it again. What was this? My hand with a mind of its own? On the third time I muttered an audible expletive. I looked around to see half a dozen pressmen going about their business. A couple of them even nodded. I slowly slid my hands into my pockets and muttered to myself again, hoping that nobody noticed. But then I realized that somebody did notice. For 12 years I have been running out to the presses; at least a couple dozens times a day. Damn right somebody noticed! That's 24 time's a day, at fourteen days a month times twelve. Now multiply that by 12 years and tell me that nobody noticed me out at the presses touching things as I walked on by. I had this memory of Monk walking down the sidewalk touching every street meter that he passed. Luckily for me I've reached an age where I just don't care. Otherwise I'd be a mess. Now my sock drawer is a different thing, I still have issues with that. And my silverware touching my food, I'm working on that too. I mean...that's just dumb. How else am I supposed to eat my food?