The body is willing, not the mind
After relaxing in the living room with a glass of wine, I walked into the kitchen to find the door to the built-in wine cooler wide open. Not only did this do nothing for the already iffy flavor of the bottle of cheap chardonnay on the bottom shelf, it also made me realize just how far gone I am.
It’s been pointed out to me – many times – that I seem to have a little problem with closing things. Kitchen cabinets, drawers, milk cartons, jars: all are subject to my tendency not to return things to their resting state. For years, I’ve waved off this criticism, saying we all have moments of absentmindedness. We writers, especially, have such important things going on in our brains that the occasional failure to put the cap back on the milk before returning it to the fridge is an understandable slight and just part of the creative process.
That the milk shared the fridge with the bowl (obviously uncovered) of chili from the night before and therefore emerged the next morning tasting like cumin? Well that’s not so easily forgiven.
It’s taken me half a century, but I see I have a problem. This week, after spending the afternoon in my office, I returned to the kitchen to find the following: the dishwasher door opened all the way to the floor, the bottle of creamer uncapped and on the counter, my work calendar spread open on the counter to December, three cabinet doors open and the silverware drawer pulled all the way out. Things were sticking out like tongues at a sore throat clinic.
I was the only one at home all day.
What’s my excuse? I wasn’t raised this way. I grew up in a household so neat that a visitor might not know there were three children and three dogs living there. A psychologist would have some fun with this. Am I afraid of things coming to an end? Am I so distracted by the milk, or the spoons, or the wine (well, yes) that I don’t follow through? Do I have an undiagnosed attention-deficit problem?
If there were a pill to help with this, there are people in this family who might encourage me to get some. Milk has gone sour and containers of yogurt have gone dry. Noggins have been cracked on open cabinet doors, mine included. Did a hard head-banging cause a concussion, also undiagnosed? Is this not my fault at all?
My grandmother had a freezer in the basement, where she kept the popsicles and the Klondike bars and other cold treats. On the door , she put a big sign that said Close Me Tight. Apparently, one of us had gone down there pillaging for Nutty Buddy bars and left it open, ruining things for everyone. Some of those signs posted around would help me, but what an eyesore. There must be a better way.
As I write these final sentences, I’m getting an idea. As a writer, I would no sooner leave a period off the end of a sentence than get there, their and they’re mixed up. I am a smashing good editor. Closing a door is as obvious and easy as putting a period on the end of a sentence.
Let’s see if that works
Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.