I Hate to Confess, But. . .

Several months ago, I confessed something:  I am not a flexible person.  This was a sad realization because I’d always considered myself to be open to new opportunities, unafraid of change.

Alas, this isn’t true.  Today, that problem I attempt to ignore was savagely reinforced.

At noon,  I reached into the cabinet to get a plate for George’s lunch.  When I looked at the one I’d brought down, I realized I’d grabbed the hamburger plate.  Yes, that’s right.  I have a hamburger plate.  Actually, two:  one for each of us.  His is gold—because he likes mustard—and mine is orange because I don’t.

I put the plate back on the shelf, right above my breakfast plate.  Yes, I have a breakfast plate.  In fact, I also have a breakfast fork, an old salad fork that has survived for thirty years, the only surviving part of that set.

What would happen if I didn’t use my breakfast fork or plate?  Or if I served a sandwich on the hamburger plate?  I don’t even want to consider that.  The thought makes me shiver.

How did this inflexibility begin?  When did I start having a breakfast plate and two back backup breakfast plates?

And, of course, there’s always that toilet paper thing.

What about you?  Do you have a certain way you have to do things?   Do any of your foibles this bother those you live with?  Can you laugh at yourself about these?  If you share, I’ll feel so much better.  Maybe even normal.

 

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