A pocket full of posies

As this life is for learning, I am diligent in my studies. Some things I catch on to right away; they just make sense. Other things. . .well, not so much.

One of my personal, eternal conundrums is understanding those persons with XY chromosomes. I find myself always in a dither, asking, "Why? Why? Why?!?" Usually finding solutions to interrogative sentences leads to learning. In this case, I dig a deeper and deeper hole in my brain, with no sign of answers--ever.

Since I began doing his laundry, I have been trying to figure out why he puts such random stuff in his pockets. It's a totally foreign idea to me. I don't usually wear pants with pockets, and when I do, the pockets are too tiny, or so full of my own body, that I can't fit anything in there. A popped off button would be a tight squeeze.

He, however, seems to have the equivalent of Mary Poppins' carpet bag in his trousers. I'm telling you!

But to make matters worse, sometimes I jump the gun with my laundering; that is to say, I wash pants on the floor that were "only worn once", so they didn't need to be washed. Other times, he simply puts his pants in the hamper without emptying the pockets, because his mom always emptied pockets to collect tips. Either way, I'm pulling quite the assortment of odds and ends out of my washing machine.

When we were first married, I washed his entire wallet. When he came home from school, the contents of his wallet were carefully lined up on the back of our second-hand sofa, trying to catch the few drafts of warm air that our apartment produced. Flustered and blushing, I defended myself. Certainly he was part to blame.

I thought he had learned his lesson. He thought I had learned mine.

Fast forward eleven years, and we're still unsure as to why the other insists on repeating behavior that ensures a washer full of pocket junk.

The other day, I washed a load of his pants. When I went to move the load to the dryer, I noticed that it looked like I just dumped the kitchen junk drawer into the machine, the items were so random: Otter Pop wrappers, various coins, rare Lego pieces, bits of rope, small tools, soggy receipts, candy wrappers, a cuticle cutter, ear buds, a memory key. . .to list a few. If I went around the house and randomly selected items from drawers, I couldn't have collected a more motley crew.

Yesterday we were taking down the trampoline in preparation for the impending winter months. I was struggling to untie the elastic knots that were tying down the padding. After several minutes, I looked over at my husband, who was making quick work of the knotty buggers.

"How'd you do that?" I asked.

"I use this tool," he returned, holding up a screw.

"Where'd you get that?" I asked incredulously.

"From my pocket," he answered matter-of-factly. "Do you want it?"

"Yes, but what will you use?"

"This," he said, and reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a small tool that I had never seen before.

"What's that?" I asked, incredulity mixed with awe.

"A spring tool--to take the trampoline springs off," he explained.

My jaw dropped, I shook my head, and I impatiently thought to myself, "Oh, when will I ever learn?"