I am not inherently clean. There is dust on the stereo, cobwebs behind the dresser and loose change between the sofa cushions.

I'm not particularly neat. My clothes rarely make it to the hamper; I have a stack of unopened mail; and when washing dishes, I often leave a spoon behind.

Still, I have a quirky sense of order.

My compact discs are filed alphabetically and ordered by release date. My fishing rods are displayed by length on a rod rack hanging on the wall, and my golf bag has 14 dividers so each club can have its own place.

Then there are the bizarre behaviors. For years, I have engaged in a pattern to prepare for important events; it started in college. Whenever I had a major paper due, I would have to clean my dorm room before starting the assignment.

As the years went on, the neurosis expanded. Before I get a FedEx delivery, I have to tidy the house, trim my beard, bathe and cut my fingernails. Everything must be in order before I cut open the box.

My wife says I am nuts, but I insist I simply have a heightened sense of order. Besides, who is she to criticize? Montessori teachers, with their colored bins and wooden trays, should never cast stones at us mere mortals!

This past summer, I visited a high school buddy and his expectant wife in Seattle, and they were nothing if not the complete opposite of me. Their house was beautiful, with French doors, an antique baby grand, and a wine cellar.

The place was stunning. Except for one thing: There was stuff everywhere.

Their million-dollar home looked like an obstacle course, its beauty lost beneath the clutter.

I found myself bouncing around like a pinball.

It turns out that I am not the only one who thought the place was a bit crowded. His mom offered to have a pro come in and organize the place. She said that they needed room — for the many things that come with a baby, like strollers, cribs, bassinets, bottles and, of course, boxes and boxes of diapers.

But they also needed room for their emotions — for the joy of first smiles, first words and first steps.

They need room for their stress. Those late nights pacing the living room floor, waiting for the fever to break. For crying and cooing and running out for late-night drives around the block to put baby to sleep.

A good interior decorator will tell you that three feet is needed between pieces of furniture so that people can pass through with ease. But a household is more than our physical bodies. It is a container for our lives and all the emotional material that goes with them.

I don't know if my buddy ever took his mom up on her offer, but I sure would have.

I wonder if she has any words of wisdom for my other compulsive traits. The bills in my wallet are always face up, in descending order. I carry a pencil case with newly sharpened pencils facing one direction and used pencils facing the other.

THEN THERE IS THE BOOKSHELF IN MY BATHROOM ...

Michael C. DeMattos is on faculty at the University of Hawai'i School of Social Work. He lives in Kane'ohe with his wife, daughter and two dogs.