I’ve never been a good folder of shirts. What I call “folding” is what others would call, well, I don’t know what. But not folding. I have a way of sort of manipulating the shirts into some kind of deeply personal apparel origami. It works for me, and I’ve been doing it for over half a century, and I’m not stopping now.

Well, I thought I wasn’t stopping now, until I made the mistake tonight of folding my t-shirts in the living room, while the Lovely Miss Courtney was sitting nearby. Being a clothing professional carefully trained in the craft of folding by The Gap (or is it just “Gap?” Is there a “The” there?), she couldn’t sit idly by (although we were watching American Idol) and watch the mess I was creating with my t-shirts. For an example of the mess, see the photo above, top left.

Now, see the photo below for Courtney’s professionally-trained handiwork.

So I did what any proud dad would do. I said, “I bet you can’t do it again,” and handed her another shirt. And then another one, until all the shirts were folded, Gap style. She was happy, because her obsessive-compulsive folding disorder was stroked, and I was happy because I didn’t have to fold any more shirts.