The Little Sister in Me

I am a little sister. I am the last born -- a natural instigator (just ask my brother, cerca age 8). I learn how to press peoples' buttons, and I do so ever so slightly, enough to evoke a reaction. And then I innocently watch as the consequences unfold. (These days, I usually refrain from button-pushing, unless I just can't help it.)

I also thrive in an environment of slight disorder. (I said slight, Mom.) I don't make my bed. When I am working on a project, I like my supplies and notes to envelop me. When I am cooking, I like to leave dishes and opened jars of food all over the counter until I'm finished. When I am getting dressed, I like to leave piles of clothes on the bed or chair until I choose the right outfit (and sometimes I leave them longer). I like to live in a way that, if you should walk into my apartment at any given time, you would think, "somebody lives here."

Are any of those things wrong?

Maybe it's not wrong, but it's definitely wrong for this apartment. Though I don't care about the direction of the utensils in the silverware drawer, or the way my shampoo bottles sit in the shower, or how the tea towel (i.e. Terrible Towel) hangs in the kitchen, or which end of the laundry lines the knots sit on, or where the furniture sits in the living room, I have a flatmate who does care. Too much. Like, OCD too much.

Being the instigator that I am, I can't help but put the utensils in the opposite direction, knowing that they will be reversed the next time I open the drawer. I can't help but hang my bath sponge on the hook, knowing that the next time I enter the bathroom, it will be taken down. I can't help but leave the knots unaligned when I finish taking my laundry down.

And maybe it's wrong to instigate. But I am pretty sure it goes both ways.