My boss loves lists. So much.
This makes some sense to me, because I am rather fond of lists myself. Even so, my fondness of lists cannot compete with hers; she has a list for every thing. Everything. It seems to give her a sense of calm--to know that she has reliable records of where everything is, how everything is organized, what she needs to do, what she has done, where she did the things she has done, with whom, and for how long. That woman picks up a list and this perfect peace falls over her face, like all is right with the world.
As I said, I cannot compete with a love of lists that runs so deep. My fondness for lists is more shallow--I care for them, but I view a list more as a charming organization specialist who stops by, evaluates my situation, and tells me how to move forward. With each new step, my world becomes clearer. Cubbies in the closet, files alphabetized, pens in the pen cup thingy. Then at the end of the day, I shake the organization specialist's hand and say, "Thank you! You've been a big help today, and I will now watch you walk away with a quiet sense of accomplishment and gratitude."
Then the organization specialist walks away, leaving her card behind and knowing that I will call again soon.
I like my list. In fact, I am about to make a new one now to sort out the millions of things I have to do today. Then I will do each thing one by one, seeing my day and my plans fall carefully into place, feeing a sense of perfect accomplishment as I draw that perfect little line through each task completed.
Yes, the list is good to me. But if a list is looking for a really serious, really deep love, it'll want to go find my boss.