When the couples therapist inevitably asks, I’ll have an answer ready: The trouble began in August 2017, when my boyfriend and I moved in together, and I quickly revealed myself to be an absolute ding-dong at loading the dishwasher.

I am not what you would call “precise” or “tactical” in really any aspect of my life, but certainly not in front of an open dishwasher. I lack the structural engineer’s mind for space optimization, or maybe I lack the functional adult’s patience to figure it out. I don’t totally understand how the water moves around in there, or how the soap gets dispersed. (Also, because we’re being open and honest with one another, I have never been sure about prerinsing, though I do get the sense that the rules have changed recently?) I don’t have a philosophy about what should go on the top or the bottom—I basically just put things in the first semi-logical place I see, close the door, smash some buttons, and hope for the best.