I am freak about how beds are made. I know this about myself. I believe in hospital corners and crisp sheets. It would actually make me happy if all my sheets were ironed, but I don’t take the time.
Charlie has found this compulsion bizarre since we were first married. He doesn’t understand it. If I left things up to him, he would just smash all the sheets up under the mattress any old way. Just talking about that makes my eye twitch.
A few years ago, I can’t remember why, but Katy Kat was helping me make beds in advance of company coming. Charlie walked in the room. Katy and I were chatting about something totally unrelated, but both tucking and folding sheets in unison.
He just stared at us in stunned silence for a moment before announcing, “You two are freaks. And your whole family are a bunch a bed-making freaks who taught you both how to do that.”
Until that moment, I hadn’t even realized what was happening. Katy and I make beds exactly the same way. We both learned from our fathers, who learned from our Nano. My sister and Katy’s siblings do the same thing as well. We are all very precise, bed-making freaks. We can’t help ourselves.
This weekend, Monkey Boy announced with big pride that he made his own bed. He was as particular about it as he could be. Charlie was horror-stricken. “You did this to him!” he accused me. My heart was so full it almost exploded with pride. “I know!”
He walked out of the room shaking his head and mumbling, “whole family of bed-making freaks…”