I think rearranging furniture might be the key to improving romance. Not in a feng shui kind of way. This is not a column about Zen cohabitation.
I’m not a great housekeeper (sorry, Mom). But from time to time, I get into a state of being overwhelmed by clutter, and I become that B-word – you know, that five-letter B-word we’re not supposed to use to describe women, but sometimes it applies – frenetic, oversensitive, snappish.
These moods arrive much to the misfortune of any poor soul who crosses my path and to the particular misfortune of the man who shares my one-bedroom, downtown Chattanooga apartment. And when that happens, I set out on a massive, obsessive compulsive, “get this junk out of my house” detoxification cleaning.
That happened a couple of weekends ago. And my beleaguered significant other was held hostage while I ordered him to “get rid of all your crap you don’t need” and sent him to the trash bin with bag after bag of discarded papers and expired makeup products, while I filled sacks to take to Goodwill.
Slowly, I started to feel better.