I sometimes question how Chase lives with me. There are times I don’t even want to live with myself. For Chase, I’m sure it must be nice knowing that if his belongings “accidently” become scattered around the house, they will eventually find their way back to the proper place without his assistance. It’s as though a magical fairy visits 20 Larkspur Court each day to make the bed, fluff the pillows, prepare dinner and wipe the countertops. My stepmother-in-law warned me that if I consistently pick up after Chase he will turn into his father and become accustomed to having it done for him. There is no question; he is his father’s son.
I frequently have to remind myself of how clean Chase really is and how fortunate I am to have a husband so willing to help out with the upkeep of our home. The problem lies with me. I’m a neat freak to the umpteenth degree. I’m self diagnosed with OOCD, Obsessively Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. In my eyes, no one can ever clean, make the bed or organize the house as good as I can so there is really no need for anyone else to get involved. I owe an immense amount of credit to Chase for complying with my ridiculous requests. Keeping the spices alphabetized, ensuring the pantry contents are organized from tallest to shortest, making certain all of the labels in the fridge are facing forward and centering the sink faucet are just the requirements for the kitchen. There are still about ten rooms to go.
This past weekend I traveled from Raleigh to Charlotte, Charlotte to Hickory, Hickory to Boone, Boone to Hickory, Hickory to Charlotte and Charlotte to Raleigh. Following Saturday’s wedding in Charlotte, I had one goal once I finally reached home – take a shower. The entire car ride home smelled like a sweat flavored wedding cake and I couldn’t wait to wash away the stink. The unfortunate thing about a two hour car ride is the fact that it gave my OOCD brain time to think about everything that needed to be done before Chase’s mom comes to visit. One to-do stood out and couldn’t be ignored. The guest bed needed a bedskirt.
When I finally reached Raleigh, I made a pit stop at the local Target to pick up a bedskirt which then turned into buying a bedskirt, a comfy mattress pad and linen freshener. It was as though I was trying to turn my guest bedroom into the Ritz Carlton. Any normal, practical, smelly human being would then go home, promptly take a shower, wait for their manly husband to get home to help and then worry about putting the new bedskirt on the bed. Not me. I made it home and I made it to the shower but not in the shower. I’m embarrassed to admit what I did next.
With the hot water prepped and ready for my arrival, my mind simply wouldn’t let me bathe until the guest bed was complete. Butt naked I proceeded to disassemble the bed, power lift the top mattress and strategically place my new bedskirt on the bed. I can only imagine what Chase would have thought if he would have come home to find me playing Martha Stewart in the nude.
As I finally stood in the shower, I didn’t reflect on my absurd behavior. Instead, I obsessed over the fact that I hated the color of the new bedskirt. It simply did not match the way I had envisioned. I promptly returned it the next day and purchased another, different colored bedskirt.
The entire situation made me realize what a pain I am to live with. I applaud my husband and my past roommates, Carrie and Brie, for somehow putting up with my obsessive antics. This epiphany doesn’t mean I plan on changing my ways anytime soon, but it does mean I’ll consider putting on a skirt before I try to dress a bed.