Food hoarder disorder

I don’t eat leftovers. My wife thinks she does, but in fact, she only collects leftovers. All leftovers. No portion is too small or insignificant not to be “Tuppered” (new word). I should have known, looking at her vast army of Tupperware early on, that there was an issue. I ignored the small voice in my head that whispered, “Danger Will Robinson, danger!”

Further warning came when, after one of our first dinners, I began to scrape the orts from my dish and she scolded me sharply. “Are you throwing that away?!”

I paused, looked down, looked up at her face, and finally said sarcastically, “I’m sorry, whatever was I thinking?” Imagine, I had already forced myself to eat two of the four Brussels sprouts on my plate. The idea of saving the last two little fuckers would never have crossed my mind. Vegetables are not my favorite food—so sue me.

I remember back then I thought the light had gone out in her fridge and then realized every shelf was packed with cartons, packages … and Tupperware. The light wasn’t out; the fridge was just so packed the light was useless! It was like looking into a miniature pre-dawn picture of Tokyo.

Saving a salad made a month earlier means to me there should be some couch-time consideration and maybe some good meds!  Nothing was dated (not that it would have made much of a difference to me). I don’t regard leftovers highly, but I was curious: What’s back there, back where the light illuminates itself? I looked both ways and began disassembling the tiny community before me. There was a light at the end of the shelf, and right next to it was a suspicious container with a slightly red tinge to the contents. I lifted the container and noted it seemed heavier than I thought it should be. The rubber top teased and dared my curiosity, and then it threatened my resolve about the whole matter. Suddenly I was Steve McQueen being chased through that supermarket by a massive mountain of breathing strawberry jelly anxious to consume me! Hey! Maybe that’s it! She’s afraid to open them! Yeah, that’s it!

That’s not it.

I quickly replaced and reassembled the condiment community, slammed the door, and found my back pressing against it. Part of me was actually waiting for some inner movement to indicate an effort to escape. 
So she’s hiding a food-hoarder disorder! Could be worse, right? Right??