As a child I was raised by a master organizer. An A-type personality, if you will. I remember my childhood home so well. No shoes left on the floor downstairs. Every t-shirt neatly folded and placed in its assigned drawer. Even food had its own place in the refrigerator.
Then there was my bedroom. I was fortunate to have a mom with a “shut the door” policy. Even though the rest of the house knew no junk drawers, messes, or clutter, I was allowed to keep my room how I wanted it. When I was about eight years old I remember asking for permission to mess up my neatly folded drawers of clothes. My best friend didn’t have nice and neat dresser drawers, so I didn’t want them either. “Sure,” my mom said, “but I don’t know how you’ll keep anything free of wrinkles that way.”
That was my goal – to keep my life free of wrinkles like my mom. And I wanted to just as good at it as she was. However, that wasn’t me. That was the pseudo me.