Is there a fine line between "quirk" and "disorder"?  They might bear a resemblance to each other at times but, for my sake, I hope they're not too closely related.

Did you ever stop to think about some of the weird things you do?  Not the major habits of life, like why you procrastinate; why you bite your nails; or why you eat your peas first, then the yummy meat on your plate.  I'm talking about the things that - every once in a while - make you look over your shoulder and think, Lord I hope nobody knows what a loony I am.

For instance: Why can't I change lanes without purposefully avoiding the little bumpy things?  I'm not talking about the big white things that are like half a bowling ball glued to the road.  Those will tear your axle off the chassis.

I mean the tiny reflectors that separate the lanes of traffic.  It's not like they are going to inflict severe tire damage.  Yet I am bound - every time - to steer between them.  Sometimes you have to time it just right so your left wheels cross the line behind the bumps, then your right wheels cross ahead of them.  It's like a game - the Lane Change Challenge!  But is anyone else playing?

Then there are the odd habits that really make me wonder.  Like when I'm taking my morning meds: I pop them in my mouth, then stick my tongue out at the mirror to be sure I took the right ones.  They were just in my HAND!  Did I not see them then?  Is my memory that bad?

My wife has a few funny quirks, too.  Not that I'm going to confess them publicly.

OK, maybe just one:

She has what I call the "defense syndrome".  This condition usually manifests when I'm behind the wheel and she's a passenger.  Inevitably some idiot (read, "any driver on the road who is not me") will cut me off, turn without signaling, or commit the cardinal vehicular sin of going the speed limit in front of me.

At this point I'll growl something about "jerk" or "moron" and glare at the other driver.  Generally the glare is severe enough to make honking my horn superfluous.  I like to honk anyway, just in case the offender hasn't seen my piercing gaze.

Then the defense syndrome kicks in, and Nancy will always have some excuse for this waste of perfectly good asphalt:

"Maybe he's lost and doesn't know where to turn."

Or...

"She's probably watching for garage sale signs."

Or...

"Maybe he's going to get medicine for someone who's sick."

Boo hoo!  What about my needs?  I have places to go, too, you know!  These videos aren't going to return themselves to Blockbuster.

Of course, Nancy has no idea whether she's right about these folks.  But she has to be sure I know I don't own the road.  Not yet, anyway.

Also, there's my habit of counting stairs as I go up or down.  This one ought to bother me more than it does.  I do it on every staircase I use, but why do I do it at home?  I mean, I've lived in this house for near 15 years now; I know there are sixteen steps.  But I cannot use the stairs without counting them.

Sometimes I count them in Spanish - just because I can count to "diez y seis".  But, sometimes, it makes me wish there were only fifteen steps; because "quince" is the last easy Spanish number (after that it's all something "y" something else).

Then there is the odd way that I...

What's that?  Oh.

In your defense, Nancy thinks I've said enough.  I'm gonna go glare at her.