I had no idea, really.

It is my habit to tidy a room by moving it’s out of place contents to new, neatly stacked residences strategically placed about the room’s perimeter. A re-shuffling, really, and it’s a skill that takes a certain talent to pull off. To my trained eye, a pair of pajamas, three socks and a sweatshirt I haven’t worn in a week just look better in an organized pile next to the nightstand. “There’s just this little gap between the closet door and my nightstand just begging for some company,” I think to myself. Gently rest these items alongside a half filled glass of water and to me, the collection simply disappears.

If one were to ask me to assign myself to a category - clean or messy, I’d go with the clean one without hesitation. “Look around,” I might add. “I just cleaned this room and it’s spotless.”

My wife Linda, though, would beg to differ. Two weeks ago we returned from spring break where I thought I’d have the chance to get a morning of snowboarding in. I prepared for the trip with goggles, gloves, snow pants and a choice of jackets but when it came to packing it seemed we’d run out of duffle bags so I stuffed my gear in a white plastic Hefty bag. When we returned from vacation I emptied the contents of my suitcase but left the plastic garbage bag in the hallway outside our room. Holes had begun to tear spilling its contents on the floor but I honestly hadn’t noticed. Two weeks ago when I propped the bag in the corner I was careful to nestle it next to a closet door where it sagged, blending perfectly with the door’s casing.

This morning Linda said to me, “When are you going to clean up that bag of ski clothes?” And I looked at her, wondering what she was talking about. “The white garbage bag,” she said. “The one that’s been sitting right outside our bedroom door for the past two weeks?”

I hadn’t noticed. Really.