Piles

Husband has a piling problem.

It all started when we were dating. I noticed when I was in his apartment in college that his life revolved around his coffe table, on which was piled his computer, his books, his iPod, his headphones, his homework, his bag of chips, and various scraps of paper. Foolishly, I imagined that his piling was due to a lack of space in that tiny apartment. I mean, four men lived in that apartment. Four men with shoes and dress shirts and soccer cleats and baseball gloves and kayaks and dvds and XBoxes and other various MAN THINGS. No wonder he had to pile.

However, the piling was not, as I had imagined, a result of his living situation. When we got married and began cohabitation, he began piling on our kitchen table. The pile generally centers on his computer and its power cord. Similar to The College Pile, there are headphones and an iPod, and occasionally, chips. Now, however, there are Big People things like receipts and bills and junk mail and books about mutual funds. That's right, The Pile is expanding.

If only that were the worst of it.

Recently, Husband has developed a habit of territorial piling. He is piling in various locations, presumably because of a need to mark his space. The dresser in the bedroom has been Piled. Its covered in change and papers and dress shirt collar thingies. The coffee table has been Piled. The computer occasionally resides there, but it is currently piled with his Bible and various church-related papers. The end table has been piled. It is now the happy home of a notepad, a pen, and his iPod charging dock.

Do you see what I mean about the piles? The piles are consuming this apartment. Husband has a piling problem. I've started thinking of piles/piled/piling as a state of being. I'm piled. PILED.