I am an organizer

If you came to my apartment you'd never think that. You'd see the over-stuffed bookshelves, the piles of magazines, the scattered pictures on the walls, the exploding closet, and the random assortment of magnets on the fridge. But in the rest of my life, yes. I am an organizer.

I need a schedule to feel comfortable and always want to know the night before what I'll be waking up to. It's not to say I am adverse to changing my plans, but I like waking up with a sense of purpose. I like knowing when I'll see my friends next when we are saying goodbye. I like writing down my meetings and appointments and seeing how full my day is going to be. It's all incredibly satisfying.

Some would call it boring I suppose or safe. But I question whether without people like me, organizing everyone into action for any number of ludicrous reasons, would it all be impossible or just never actually occur.

I admire my friends who on any given day will have one-hundred-and-one options in front of them and choose a different one each time. Could I do it? Could I wake up one day and have no sense of what I would do without a complete sense of panic? Would I be at a complete loss? Would I have the creativity to try something radical instead of just heading out for the paper and a latte? Yes, I think I would. Oh, of course I wouldn't. Of course I'd just go get the latte.

I'm not sure there's an epiphony here. I like to organize. And those overstuffed bookshelves are organized by favourite books read and in-waiting, my closet is colour-coded, and the pictures are in chronological order of trips I have taken.