Control issues

I'm a control freak. (Hey, that sentence sounds familiar. I'm pretty sure I've started a post this way before. Weird.) Sorry, where were we? Oh, yes, I'm a big freaky, controlling, uh, freak. It's just part of who I am. Mostly I keep it pretty low key, because if the higher-ups knew just how nuts I can get, well, they'd have me poppin' Valium like Skittles. You know, if I liked Skittles. The only time my issues tend to cause big problems is if I'm going to be away from my family for a while. Then I turn into a crazy lady and I micromanage everything before I leave so that things will run just as smoothly as they would have had I never left. I precook meals, I write detailed lists, I clean our entire home twice, and I get bossier than normal. Good times for all.

The funny thing is, if I'm the one staying and my husband is going, then it's easier to rein myself in. I assume that he can take care of himself and I try not to concern myself with anything other than a goodbye kiss at the door.

So several years ago, when Adam was heading off for student teaching in Germany as part of his Master's requirement, I was content to let him figure out the flight information, the housing situation, the money issues. I just sat around minding my own business and dreading the four months of husbandlessness in my near future. But then, as he was packing, Adam turned to me and asked a favor.

"Would you write out a list of which shirts I can wear with which pants? And whether to wear black shoes or brown shoes with each outfit?"

Hmm. What to say? Of course, I was thinking, Yeah, I will! We both know you can't dress yourself. And you know how I love to make decisions for people. But I thought I'd help him assert some independence, since he would be on his own for a little while. (In case you're wondering, this whole he-can't-survive-without-me-even-though-he-did-perfectly-well-on-his-own-before-we-were-married mentality is my dad's fault. He's a control freak, too. Thanks, Dad!)

"Um, no," I replied lovingly. "You're an adult. Pick out your own clothes. You'll do fine."

"You're probably right," he grinned. "Like these go together, right?" He held up a blue shirt and some olive green pants.

A long pause ensued. "Gimme that paper and a pencil."

Four and a half years later, he still asks me to pick out his outfits. I grumble about it sometimes, but we both know the truth: I like to be in charge. Who's the boss? That'd be me.