| Humor Non-Fiction posted February 25, 2022 | Chapters: |
...26 27 -28- 31... 
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Maybe it is true that opposites attract.
A chapter in the book Chasing the Elusive Dream
My Husband the Organizer
by BethShelby
You are taking a big leap of faith when you leave a recently retired husband home alone on a rainy day. If there is nothing interesting on TV to entertain him, he might find a way to make himself useful, which could cause you untold complications.
To begin with, I was alarmed when my husband informed me at age fifty-six, he was retiring. Visions of homelessness and soup-kitchens surged through my mind. No one retires that early. He’s too young to draw Social Security or retirement benefits. How are we going to survive? We’ve still got children to educate. He must be having a mid-life crisis.
Luckily, he’d thought of all of that. He’d been dreaming of retiring since his first job. He wasn’t lazy; far from it. He just didn’t like working for someone else, and he wanted to be free to pursue his own thing. Since I wasn’t inclined to live in the sticks while he raised cattle, he made sure he’d invested enough over the years that we’d survive. Although I’d protested, I knew when to shut up. All my dire predictions of being on the street didn’t occur and life went on. I chose to keep working, just in case. Unlike him, I actually enjoyed my job.
Most days, my husband was happily involved in something out in the yard, making a garden or building something. He kept busy and never regretted a day of retiring early. But then one rainy day, he decided he would do something to make my life easier, or so he thought.
To say I’m not the most organized person around is a gross understatement. My husband, on the other hand was meticulous and organized to the hilt. One rainy day, he took a look at my closet and my library and decided it was time to organize me.
The problem was his idea of organizing was all about the aesthetic looks of things. He was a neat-freak. I had a huge walk-in closet in which I stored things of all sizes depending on whether my body was holding water or had been on a 20-day fast. I also had clothes for all seasons and all occasions. They ranged from brand-new to twenty-five years out of date. To him, it looked like the chaos of a mad woman. The things I grabbed to wear each morning were the things I liked best. They were in season and they fit, both my body and my needs for the day.
When I came home on that ill-fated day, he took my hand and proudly led me upstairs to see his handiwork. To my shock and horror, my clothes were all color coordinated. My closet was lined up like a rainbow. Everything I’d ever owned was with its matching color. My new blue winter suit, my blue robe and my blue spring dress from ten year ago all hung neatly side by side.
Next, he led me to my library. It had been a long day, and he’d worked fast. I had hundreds of books on every imaginable subject like self-help, inspiration, medical, classics, mysteries and encyclopedias. He had them neatly rearranged by size. Apparently, he’d found it offensive to see a 10-inch-high book with brown jacket standing next to a 6-inch x 12-inch book in a blue jacket, even when it was written by the same author. Apparently the tops of all books needed to even and the colors consistant in order to look neat on the shelf.
He looked so pleased with himself, I found it hard to burst his bubble. I did most of my crying in private.
I discovered there was one area in which his organizational ability did come in handy. Every time I loaded the dishwasher. He would go behind me and remove everything I’d put in and rearrange it. He was genius when it came to loading a dishwasher. He could get three times as many dishes in as I could, and they all came out sparkling. I assigned him that task permanently and asked politely that he steer clear of my closet.
He agreed to allow me to be a slob, and he would look the other way. It worked well, until he became bored again and drew up plans for a third story sunroom with views of Lookout Mountain. When the time came to build it, he informed me half of my closet had to go so he would have an area in which to build the stairs. The room turned out beautifully, but sacrificing my closet broke my heart. All of those clothes I didn’t wear had to be packed away.
I had to admit his talents as designer and carpenter were much more desirable than his organizational skills. This time he actually did accumulate some brownie points. That room became a family favorite.
You are taking a big leap of faith when you leave a recently retired husband home alone on a rainy day. If there is nothing interesting on TV to entertain him, he might find a way to make himself useful, which could cause you untold complications.
To begin with, I was alarmed when my husband informed me at age fifty-six, he was retiring. Visions of homelessness and soup-kitchens surged through my mind. No one retires that early. He’s too young to draw Social Security or retirement benefits. How are we going to survive? We’ve still got children to educate. He must be having a mid-life crisis.
Luckily, he’d thought of all of that. He’d been dreaming of retiring since his first job. He wasn’t lazy; far from it. He just didn’t like working for someone else, and he wanted to be free to pursue his own thing. Since I wasn’t inclined to live in the sticks while he raised cattle, he made sure he’d invested enough over the years that we’d survive. Although I’d protested, I knew when to shut up. All my dire predictions of being on the street didn’t occur and life went on. I chose to keep working, just in case. Unlike him, I actually enjoyed my job.
Most days, my husband was happily involved in something out in the yard, making a garden or building something. He kept busy and never regretted a day of retiring early. But then one rainy day, he decided he would do something to make my life easier, or so he thought.
To say I’m not the most organized person around is a gross understatement. My husband, on the other hand was meticulous and organized to the hilt. One rainy day, he took a look at my closet and my library and decided it was time to organize me.
The problem was his idea of organizing was all about the aesthetic looks of things. He was a neat-freak. I had a huge walk-in closet in which I stored things of all sizes depending on whether my body was holding water or had been on a 20-day fast. I also had clothes for all seasons and all occasions. They ranged from brand-new to twenty-five years out of date. To him, it looked like the chaos of a mad woman. The things I grabbed to wear each morning were the things I liked best. They were in season and they fit, both my body and my needs for the day.
When I came home on that ill-fated day, he took my hand and proudly led me upstairs to see his handiwork. To my shock and horror, my clothes were all color coordinated. My closet was lined up like a rainbow. Everything I’d ever owned was with its matching color. My new blue winter suit, my blue robe and my blue spring dress from ten year ago all hung neatly side by side.
Next, he led me to my library. It had been a long day, and he’d worked fast. I had hundreds of books on every imaginable subject like self-help, inspiration, medical, classics, mysteries and encyclopedias. He had them neatly rearranged by size. Apparently, he’d found it offensive to see a 10-inch-high book with brown jacket standing next to a 6-inch x 12-inch book in a blue jacket, even when it was written by the same author. Apparently the tops of all books needed to even and the colors consistant in order to look neat on the shelf.
He looked so pleased with himself, I found it hard to burst his bubble. I did most of my crying in private.
I discovered there was one area in which his organizational ability did come in handy. Every time I loaded the dishwasher. He would go behind me and remove everything I’d put in and rearrange it. He was genius when it came to loading a dishwasher. He could get three times as many dishes in as I could, and they all came out sparkling. I assigned him that task permanently and asked politely that he steer clear of my closet.
He agreed to allow me to be a slob, and he would look the other way. It worked well, until he became bored again and drew up plans for a third story sunroom with views of Lookout Mountain. When the time came to build it, he informed me half of my closet had to go so he would have an area in which to build the stairs. The room turned out beautifully, but sacrificing my closet broke my heart. All of those clothes I didn’t wear had to be packed away.
I had to admit his talents as designer and carpenter were much more desirable than his organizational skills. This time he actually did accumulate some brownie points. That room became a family favorite.
To begin with, I was alarmed when my husband informed me at age fifty-six, he was retiring. Visions of homelessness and soup-kitchens surged through my mind. No one retires that early. He’s too young to draw Social Security or retirement benefits. How are we going to survive? We’ve still got children to educate. He must be having a mid-life crisis.
Luckily, he’d thought of all of that. He’d been dreaming of retiring since his first job. He wasn’t lazy; far from it. He just didn’t like working for someone else, and he wanted to be free to pursue his own thing. Since I wasn’t inclined to live in the sticks while he raised cattle, he made sure he’d invested enough over the years that we’d survive. Although I’d protested, I knew when to shut up. All my dire predictions of being on the street didn’t occur and life went on. I chose to keep working, just in case. Unlike him, I actually enjoyed my job.
Most days, my husband was happily involved in something out in the yard, making a garden or building something. He kept busy and never regretted a day of retiring early. But then one rainy day, he decided he would do something to make my life easier, or so he thought.
To say I’m not the most organized person around is a gross understatement. My husband, on the other hand was meticulous and organized to the hilt. One rainy day, he took a look at my closet and my library and decided it was time to organize me.
The problem was his idea of organizing was all about the aesthetic looks of things. He was a neat-freak. I had a huge walk-in closet in which I stored things of all sizes depending on whether my body was holding water or had been on a 20-day fast. I also had clothes for all seasons and all occasions. They ranged from brand-new to twenty-five years out of date. To him, it looked like the chaos of a mad woman. The things I grabbed to wear each morning were the things I liked best. They were in season and they fit, both my body and my needs for the day.
When I came home on that ill-fated day, he took my hand and proudly led me upstairs to see his handiwork. To my shock and horror, my clothes were all color coordinated. My closet was lined up like a rainbow. Everything I’d ever owned was with its matching color. My new blue winter suit, my blue robe and my blue spring dress from ten year ago all hung neatly side by side.
Next, he led me to my library. It had been a long day, and he’d worked fast. I had hundreds of books on every imaginable subject like self-help, inspiration, medical, classics, mysteries and encyclopedias. He had them neatly rearranged by size. Apparently, he’d found it offensive to see a 10-inch-high book with brown jacket standing next to a 6-inch x 12-inch book in a blue jacket, even when it was written by the same author. Apparently the tops of all books needed to even and the colors consistant in order to look neat on the shelf.
He looked so pleased with himself, I found it hard to burst his bubble. I did most of my crying in private.
I discovered there was one area in which his organizational ability did come in handy. Every time I loaded the dishwasher. He would go behind me and remove everything I’d put in and rearrange it. He was genius when it came to loading a dishwasher. He could get three times as many dishes in as I could, and they all came out sparkling. I assigned him that task permanently and asked politely that he steer clear of my closet.
He agreed to allow me to be a slob, and he would look the other way. It worked well, until he became bored again and drew up plans for a third story sunroom with views of Lookout Mountain. When the time came to build it, he informed me half of my closet had to go so he would have an area in which to build the stairs. The room turned out beautifully, but sacrificing my closet broke my heart. All of those clothes I didn’t wear had to be packed away.
I had to admit his talents as designer and carpenter were much more desirable than his organizational skills. This time he actually did accumulate some brownie points. That room became a family favorite.
 Recognized |
#18 February 2022 |
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