Listaholic

I was reflecting on how many people (particularly women) I know rely on lists. We played Who Knew the other day, and I had six excellent options. I needed to rank them from best to least favorable. Among the six items, I had French fries, hot sauce, sleeping in, mountains, etc. I opted for making lists. Lists help me relax. I feel overwhelmed by trying to keep everything in my head, and worrying about forgetting something takes up mental space. It's not just about how helpful it is; I felt almost breathless just thinking I couldn't make lists anymore. I thought about this afterward. Was it a deep-seated need to demonstrate progress? Was it a compulsion to prove my worth in soft sciences? It is all of this, and it is because I want to avoid feeling overwhelmed, so I write things down, allowing myself to breathe and walk away.

But above all, lists provide me with a sense of control. In the whirlwind of life, they help me manage my time and allow me to relax more readily. I can take deeper breaths, knowing that what I can control is written down. I often say, “I know what I need to do, but first, I'll take a moment for myself.” I'll quickly drink my coffee, brush my teeth, and tackle the tasks that others handle more easily. Every day, a list is my once upon a time, allowing me to understand the plot.

Haven (my husband) writes lists for bigger things, like projects he wants to do around the house, but primarily, he lists dates. That's his list—a calendar of dates on paper. Only paper. It makes my butt hurt just thinking about it. Like, what the fuck happens if that piece of paper goes missing? Is there a backup plan? Is there another piece of paper I can’t see? My calendar is online. I shared it with him and showed him how to use it. I maintain a weekly calendar on paper and include items that pertain to him. Should I add the dates from the slip of paper to my calendar? I asked him a few times. When he said no, I almost did, but I'm working hard on not doing what others can do for themselves or could do but don't want to.

I realize we all tick differently, and I don’t try to control other people's lists, but it’s tempting. I left the list. It felt like leaving a half-eaten, raised, glazed donut and convincing myself I didn't need the other half. Sure, I don't need it, but I'm going to damn well eat it. Thankfully, his list is much more straightforward; almost all his dates are solely about him. My list includes me, him, our son, our dog, family, friends, plans, appointments, sports, tryouts, due dates, and medication refills. I could go on forever. I think I would explode if I tried to keep all that in my head.

When I got the “making lists” card in the game, I chose it as my favorite. I thought you can't play favorites when it's something you can't live without. Lists? I can't live without them. I can find substitutes for other things—for example, I prefer lakes and big rolling hills over mountains. Sleeping in? I can go to bed early instead. Hot sauce? Am I allowed to say really, really hot sauce? Just kidding. This one was tough not to put first. Then I thought about ranch, mayo, aioli, honey mustard, or just butter, and I realized I had made a list of alternatives. This proves that having many options and a list is much more important.

My husband can remember more things than I can, so his system hasn't failed. However, if I'm out and about and can't make a list, I'll start yelling at him to help me remember things. Don’t mind me- I'm yelling at my husband in Target. He takes it in stride and usually remembers much more than I do. By writing things down or shouting them at my husband, I'm freeing myself from some of the responsibility of remembering, not the action itself. I need to forget what I have to do to be able to relax.

I know many women like me; we have numerous lists. Some are emails we keep in our inbox or flag to address, while we also save and delete others. If we're really on top of the short-term and long-term tasks, even the longer ones, they feel more like dreams we write down to remember. They would be fantastic to accomplish, but come much further down the line of priorities. Sometimes, we tick things off that list for a little pick-me-up or out of desperation to regain control or eliminate chaos. Here's an example: On my short-term list, I have grocery shopping, making dinner, calling someone back, making an appointment, and so on. On my longer-term list, I have tasks like remembering two birthdays this month, writing down who they are, and noting smaller tasks to complete for the birthdays. Then, on my even longer-term list, I have things like researching new car options or going through my closet. That task has been on my longer-term list for most of my life, and it might always be on my list.

My mind may be organized, but my list resembles the beautifully messy face of a toddler after ice cream. It isn’t a neat list, but it is functional and features doodles and stars next to important items. Nothing about my closets is beautiful; they are purely chaotic. My closets are like minefields. There is no rhyme or reason in them. There's only anarchy.

If you ever come over, I suggest you raise your arm, slowly open them, and keep that arm up because it will help you fend off any incoming items. All the items were crammed inside, and the door was slammed shut to keep them in, like a sleeping bag about to explode. So, in the words of my dear friend Nikki, I am Monica from the show Friends. I appear organized, clean, and well-listed on the outside, but I don't open my closets without first extending an arm. They don’t get organized often, but occasionally, just enough to keep my husband from suffocating. He lets out pressure releases when he opens them, and I worry that too many releases might make him faint. Repeatedly expelling air through your nose to let out steam has to build up somehow. So, I focus on removing items that might fall on someone when you open the doors. I would hate to injure his head or compromise the memory-keeping skills I rely on. He even built custom shelves to help me, leaving less room to stuff things in.

One of my close friends, Claire, visited one day and opened my closet. Don't worry; she remembered to extend her arm, pleased to see I hadn't changed in the 35 years she had known me. As she closed it, she grinned at me and said, “Glad to see you haven't changed and that your whole house isn't perfectly tidy.” Nope. There might be clean floors and multiple lists, but we all have our ways of compartmentalizing our messes, to-dos, and overwhelmed feelings. My name is Lilly, and I'm a listaholic.