Friday, 6/25/10 - Order

Why am I doing this?

Without opening her eyes she estimates the time to be 2am. Less than three hours of sleep and, for her, the night is over.

She will stay in bed, unmoving, with her eyes closed but she won't sleep any more tonight.

She is sleepy but, even more, she is tired. Tired of this routine. Tired of the disarray. The disorder. The disturbance.

She is tired of sleeping in the middle of the interstate.

Not that her home is anywhere near a highway. It isn't but Jack, sleeping beside her, makes it feel like the bed is in the middle of eight busy lanes.

Jack, who consideres himself a polished, high-powered Peterbuilt in bed, wheezes and rattles like an old U-Haul after his eyes close.

She knows it isn't his fault. It is just a bad combination of apnea, restless leg and sinus problems that converts her quiet home into toll road every time Jack spends the night.

Some nights are better than others. She thought tonight was going to be one of those nights but he started moving his feet in little running motions that grew more spastic and started shaking the bed like an approaching 18-wheeler. Then came the highway noises. Strange mechanical rumblings, grating gears, slipping belts, bangs, bumps and backfires. Sounds no human could possibly make.

Once they started, her night was over.

In the first years of their relationship Jack had often suggested living together. She never considered it. Not even for a moment.

There are some people who should live alone and she knew that she was one of those people. She explained her reasons to Jack and he accepted them but he never fully understood.

Over the years they had fallen into a pattern of staying together on Wednesdays and Saturdays. It was not enough for him and too much for her so it worked out well for both of them.

Not sleeping was only a small part of the problem. The biggest part is that Jack is not a neat person. And she is a neat person. A very neat person. An obsessively neat person.

There is no middle ground that is comfortable for the two of them. He does his best when he visits and she cleans for three days afterwards.

Even in the dark, with her eyes closed, she can see the mess he has left in the bathroom. Not her bathroom - he is not allowed to use her bathroom - in the guest bathroom.

She knows that the towel is crooked on the rack. There is a smear of toothpaste on it where he wiped his mouth without rinsing first.

The toothpaste tube will be on the counter, not in the drawer where it belongs, and it will be crushed in the middle rather than pressed evenly from the far end.

There will be a glob of paste in the sink, a puddle beneath the toothbrush holder, a tissue close to - but not in - the trash can. The toilet seat will be up and there will be dribble on the rim of the bowl.

The shower curtain will be pushed back - which will just lead to mold - and, if it's a good day, the bath towel will be thrown over the curtain rod. If it's a bad day it could be anywhere...

She knows it's not him. He is normal. It's her. She is the one with the problem.

She knows that her ways are unnatural. Nature is not orderly; it is haphazard and helter-skelter.



Only man puts things in order.

No, she corrects herself, men do not put things in order; women put things in order.

Men just make messes.