I caught myself folding one of my dishtowels this afternoon—after using it only once! I am not used to such timely attention to detail. You see, I am a recovering slob.
Please be gentle. My parents are not to blame. Suffice it to say that I prioritized others things—reading, building airplane models, smoking weed, and pleasuring myself—over making the bed, emptying the laundry basket, vacuuming, cleaning the bathroom, and other housekeeping wastes of time.
I realize full well I have just disqualified myself for marriage or cohabitation with these revelations. I make them to clear my conscience and maybe, just maybe, help another recovering slob.
My yen for reading does not help. There is something soothing about a pile of books, precariously stacked like those rocks by the creekside that are so popular on Facebook.
A lifetime of writing, combined with a compulsion to save every single draft no matter how badly formed, has left me with a paper trial thick enough for Robert Mueller.
I look at my sink. Yes, it has dirty dishes, but they have sat for less than a day. For a guy who scheduled washings on the scale of geologic time, this is a miracle.
What is happening? I have undergone many changes this past year, but this one is the most alarming. Perhaps it is a side effect of a new medication, or the emerging of OCD. Maybe it’s early senility. Or maybe I just got tired of filing environmental impact statements for my sink.
Now I am folding towels after single uses. I hardly recognize myself.
Comes the still, small voice. I am changing you, my child. If you truly seek a girlfriend, you must accept domestication. It is for your own good.
Well, okay, if it will keep me in the good graces of a future love. Accept and adapt, a wise friend always told me. Remain teachable.
All well and good… but I yearn for the old me. The guy who regarded shower gook as an experiment in discovering new species. The guy who, to badly mix metaphors, was tone-deaf to the smell of his apartment.
Change is necessary. But not so fast, okay?