Disorderly Conduct

Everything was tucked neatly into my roll-aboard suitcase: outfits for the next four days, an extra pair of shoes, my cell phone charger. Just had to add my makeup bag, and I’d be all set.

I’m a flight attendant. I travel four days a week, and I’ve got packing down to a science. I’m so organized, my half of the closet could be a display at The Container Store: shirts, skirts and pants in separate sections, arranged by length, color and season, hangers facing the same direction.

My husband’s half of the closet? Just thinking about it made me wince. So did looking at his side of the bathroom counter when I went to get my makeup bag. Vitamin bottles, deodorant, hair gel and shaving cream all jumbled together. Wet towels in a clump. And Bill had left the top off the toothpaste again.

“Lord, why doesn’t he clean up after himself?” I grumbled, more a complaint than a prayer. Then I grabbed my makeup bag and stalked out.

All right, so maybe love is blind, or at least myopic. When Bill and I were dating, I’d noticed that his house wasn’t exactly tidy. I figured all he needed was a wife to keep him in order.

Well, we’d been married almost a year now, and he hadn’t changed. Despite my “friendly reminders,” Bill didn’t seem to understand the saying “A place for everything and everything in its place.” No wonder he was always asking me where he’d left his keys.

I zipped my suitcase and carried it downstairs. Bill was in the kitchen. “Want some breakfast?” he asked. “I’m making scrambled eggs.” As if I couldn’t tell.

The butter and egg cartons were still sitting out. A wad of paper towels hinted at some attempt at cleanup, but grease was splattered all over the stove. I knew I’d have to tackle that when I got back home.

“Why do you have to be so messy?” I snapped.

Bill looked hurt. “What?” He had no idea what I was actually talking about.

I sighed. “I’ve got to go,” I said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “I’ll call you later.”

My day was busy—I worked five flights—but my thoughts kept going back to Bill. Why couldn’t he be more organized? Would I have to spend the rest of our married life straightening up after him? That would turn me into a nag. In fact, it was happening already.

My last flight, an elderly couple had the seats in my section at the front of the plane. The woman was small and frail. Her husband helped her settle into her seat and stowed her bag in the overhead compartment.

“Are you cold, sweetheart?” he asked. “Do you need your sweater?” She shook her head and patted the seat beside her.