I believe in color-coding. There’s something comforting about it; aesthetically pleasing. My closet is color-coded and I love seeing every article of clothing hanging in its own place. Color-coding keeps my life organized. You can call it obsessive compulsive but it saved my sanity; disorder makes me itch.
I first discovered color-coding when I was five or six and had inherited a plastic crayon box from a sister who was too old for coloring. This box was clear and had sixty separate, individual compartments for each crayon. One day, having gotten bored with coloring, I turned to organizing my crayons. Hours later every blue, aqua, turquoise, blue-green, and green-blue had its place. I was so proud of myself; I needed to show off my hard work. .I ran immediately to show my mother and she humored me with praise but I think she may actually have been a little scared. This was also the point in time I remember my mother starting to use the words “marches to her own drum” to describe me, her youngest daughter.
Color-coding does more than just mollify my anal-retentiveness, it also focuses my thoughts. The actual task of color-coding in its simplicity is somewhat cathartic. So much of life is confusing and rushed through; taking the time to stop and put everything in its place provides a break from the chaos. So little of life can be made sense of, every chance to make sense of it should be taken, no matter how seemingly insignificant.