Cotton Towels

I am a self diagnosed neat freak; a place for everything and everything in its place is my motto. I cringe at the thought of disorder and I will not succumb to ciaos.

My dad was a military man, so this could be the cause of my neurosis. All beds made by eight A.M., shoes lined up in the closet and shirts on plastic hangers facing the same direction (no wire hangers). Dishes were used and washed and clothes never spent a full day in the laundry basket. As a child, I thought that he was insane, but as an adult, I appreciate his rearing.

This summer I visited my best friend in Connecticut. I could not wait to see her and catch up on a years worth of quality girl time. She greeted me at the door and we sat out on her deck and enjoyed a delicious lunch until the rain began to pour. Quickly, we grabbed our glasses and desserts and headed in. She escorted me to the family room to continue our conversation.

We sat on the sofa that was piled high with clothes, clean clothes that she had recently removed from the dryer. Although the April fresh scent of the Downy fabric softener filled the air, and the Simple Pleasures, Orchid Allure dryer sheets, gently clung to the Egyptian cotton towels, I could not get comfortable. I had an overwhelming desire to fold her clothes. "Don't worry about it," she said, as I reached toward the pile. But now it was beyond my control. I could not sit still knowing there were close to be folded. Maybe if it were out of sight it would be out of mind, but the mound haunted me.

"It is alright, " I told her, grabbing for a towel. I folded the clothes, and I guess she felt obliged to fold as well. We talked, shook out wrinkles, held the ends of sheets and enjoyed the rest of our afternoon.