Sometimes, I have to remind myself that I’m thirty-eight years old.  Because the temptation to pout like a four year old can just be so strong.

I mentioned on Monday that our fridge died last week.  I was NOT in the mood to shop for a new one, and didn’t properly adjust my attitude before I headed to the Second-Hand Fridge Store on Saturday morning.  Therefore, I had to hold myself back from dramatically slumping my shoulders and stomping one foot.

My issue?

Well . . . it wasn’t that they looked bad.  Really, every fridge I looked at was perfectly nice.

And it wasn’t even that they smelled bad.

It was just that they didn’t smell new.  Straight from the factory, never-housed-an-onion new.

Seriously.  I want perfection.

But . . . after a trip to the big/fancy store where I saw the prices of the straight-from-the-factory-scented versions, I realized that purchasing a used perfectly-good used fridge was the wisest choice.

As I got my own dead-for-four-days fridge ready for the Used Fridge Delivery Man to remove it, I realized how ridiculous my obsession with a perfect, unblemished, scent-free fridge was.

My fridge?  The one I’ve had for eleven years?  Definitely not perfect.

I cleaned it out, but I definitely wasn’t worried about getting it pristine for its trip to the dump.  I just wanted it to be non-humiliating.

For a girl who obsesses over a PERFECT used fridge, I sure don’t worry much about keeping my in-use one perfect.

Me and my double standards. Ugh.

And then, as I self-righteously (still, even after wiping out my own really-truly-icky used fridge) wiped down the looked-perfectly-clean-but-what-if-they’re-not shelves of my newly-delivered used fridge . . . my suspicions were confirmed!!!

The bottom crisper drawer?  It wasn’t clean.  Not in the least! It looked like someone had done a half-hearted job of getting crumbs and particles of who-knows-what out of there, but he/she did NOT bother to scrub or shine or take any pride whatosoever in the state of his/her crisper drawer.

Then . . . a glimmer of recognition flickered across my Slob Brain.

This . . . was my drawer.

Yes.

My drawer.  The one I just “cleaned” ten minutes before.

Everything began to add up:

The fridges were the same size . . . .

The one I bought was missing a drawer in the store . . . .

He mentioned something about replacing it with a drawer from another fridge . . .

My guess is . . . since they needed to replace it anyway (and evidently forgot to replace it before arriving at my home) . . . it was  completely appropriate to replace it with my drawer.

Besides . . . I obviously don’t mind if it’s not perfectly and totally clean.

Hmmmph.  If they only knew!