You're moving out?

Last night I finally wrangled that wonderful husband of mine into helping me with some laundry. Now, when I say help, I mean maybe put a few clothes away. I am no slave driver. Mostly I just need some company. So I'm needy and attention grabbing, so what? Well, all I can say is that I was closer to the dish rag and hand-towel pile than the numerous t-shirts and socks. And perhaps I had planned it this way. I would never admit that it gives my organized mind a panic attack every time I open our sock drawer that we share or try to stuff one more of my t-shirts into the already 'filled-'til-it-can't-shut' drawer. But it does. It's such a mess of crawling clothes (mostly mine) that I grabbed the things that needed to go into the kitchen drawers before the unsuspecting husband could turn around and notice that all the socks and t-shirts on the bed would find no room in the inn. I come back in the room and all the dresser drawers are open and handsome husband is re-organizing. He was moving out! Our shared arrangement was too much for him and he surrendered the sock drawer to me alone. He was moving out and it troubled me for a minute that he didn't want to rest his socks next to mine anymore. He didn't want to dig through the pink, red and white of my girly socks to get to his manly blacks. He no longer wanted to share in the frustration of shutting that drawer without a few socks peeking over the edges. He was opting out of this small trial in life that I was sure going to leave us both stronger, as trial are supposed to do that. At least, that's what everyone tells you to take the sting off. It was kind of a weird sensation. Kind of like being told in Kindergarten, "You're not sharing the blocks very well. Tommy can go out to recess but you need to stay and clean up."