Why does my compulsion to have things in their place not carry over to the top of my dresser? Morning after morning I glance at the chaos, pick up my watch and walk away, yet a misplaced dish in the kitchen sends me, scowling, to replace it immediately.
Why does Mom ask me in the stillness of church, in a whisper that barely qualifies as one, to repeat the joke the priest just made in the beginning of his homily? I understand that she doesn’t want to miss anything, but does she really think no one else will hear me but her?
Why do friends north of me want me to go “up” there and I want them to come “down” here when my town’s elevation is clearly higher than theirs?
Why do I beat myself up every morning on the treadmill and then snack my way through the afternoon? Do I not get the connection?
And, most of all, why does Mom ask me a question when she is too far away to hear my answer? Sometimes, she isn’t even wearing her hearing aide! Does this make sense? I mean, talk about an exercise in futility.
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