Paul Richardson: May I adjust that for you?

According to the good wife, I am a sick person. Not physically ill or contagious, but there is something wrong with my inner workings. Things that inhibit my behavior and reactions. 

Her advanced psychological diagnosis has determined that it is more than just your ordinary obsessive/compulsive behavior.

Ordinary obsessive/compulsive behavior would be more consistent and not just focused on a few specific items and then appearing at random in the most unusual places. Oh no, this is totally bizarre and unpredictable symptoms. 

Of course, most of her research material is based in the ‘Reader’s Digest’ and various other over-the-counter publications and on historical data collected from my dear mother.

Information gathered from my dear mother by the good wife, indicates that my problems began early on in life. My dear mother was an immaculate housekeeper and still is. However, she had concerns during my teenage years because, according to her, I refused to dust. I kept my room in good order, but she recalls that everything grew its own furry coat. (Please note that these are the recollections from a woman with a bias and from something that may have occurred fifty years ago.) 

When she approached me about this her “go to” final solution was to dust the room herself. To this she insists that my response was, “You are welcome to do that, just don’t move anything!” The requirement that everything be in its place and must stay in that place was an additional indication of my obsessive behavior.

I have come to allow certain concessions, however, there are some things that I simply cannot give up. With me and the good wife being constant companions, we often have our meals in a very casual atmosphere. She will plate our food and then serve it to the eating area. Since we have not pre-set the dining area, she will deliver the utensils with the plated meal. I can’t deal with the utensils being placed on the plate with the meal and, heaven forbid, touching the food as she carries it to the table.

Beds should be made to military standards and with the same precision that is required of a recruit in boot camp. Smooth, tight, precise and with the ability to bounce a quarter off of the top sheet. Anything less and I start to feel like I am sleeping in a pile of rags in the corner of an abandoned room. This was probably the result of a sheet-ironing mother.

People are amazed when they find out that I do my own laundry. The good wife gave it a try early on in our marriage, now approaching thirty-nine years. Seeing that she did not respond well to constructive criticism, I relieved her of the duty since I had been doing my own laundry for at least the eight years prior to that.

Concessions are made. I like living and being around other people and have a certain fondness for the good wife, so concessions are made. I see that you have some pictures that are hanging out of plumb on the wall, could I adjust those for you?