Years ago we had the youth of our church over to our house. One of the girls looked around our kitchen, scanning the clutter-free countertops.
"Where is everything?" she asked.
"What do you mean?" I said.
"You know, the toaster, the can opener, the . . . stuff."
It was the first time I clued in to the fact that I have an area of compulsivity. There's something about clean countertops. Not only do I want them clean, I want them clear. It bothers me to see clutter on the island and counter tops. I don't know why. The rest of the house can be a raging mess, but as long as my counter tops are clean, I feel good.
Naturally, this means the counters has become a favorite breeding spot for empty cups and stray papers. Why can't my boys understand that this is my sacred spot? My must-be-clean spot? Wreak in the living room or the office, but hands off my kitchen.
Crazy, I know, but we all have at least one area of compulsivity. Don't we?