My husband has quirks. One of his most prominent is that he thinks in terms of black and white. When presented with two options he doesn't say, "hmm they are both good but I will pick this one just because."
Instead, he chooses one and the other is dead to him. He doesn't have preferences, he has discrimination. We have two recliners in our living room and he has picked one, his favored one. The other one may as well be a red-headed step child. He won't acknowledge it. And when he's forced to sit in it because, I don't know, we have company or something, he re-positions himself constantly and gets exasperated. Beads of sweat roll down his face. If you've ever watched The Big Bang Theory, think Sheldon when he's asked to sit anywhere but "his spot."
We have four pillows on our bed. As you can imagine, two pillows are preferred, the others are tossed to the floor or offered to me like sloppy seconds. He looks at them like they are used, bloody syringes, so foul, so disgusting, that he struggles to look at them. Using only his thumb and first finger to hold them, he passes them to me with a look of disgust on his face.
If I were to fall asleep on one of his pillows he would have two options: 1) rip it out from under me or 2) not sleep that night. Because the idea of using a non-sanctioned pillow would be unacceptable!
We have two throw pillows on the bed too. And as you already guessed, one is deemed acceptable and the other is not. "I'll trade you pillows" is a phrase that can be heard nightly at our house. Let me point out that there is no discernible difference between any of these pillows. At least not to the layman.
But my husband has fluffed, inspected, looked at them from every angle, sniffed them, placed one in each hand and weighed them against each other. None of these tests have valid results. They wouldn't hold up in court. That's because my husband is no expert. He's just picky. And a little crazy.
It's a good thing that we have three children. The odd number is what keeps them each in equal standing in his eyes. If there were two, he might adopt one out.
So last night when he climbed into bed and pointed at the pillow I had comfortably tucked under my head, I sighed and handed it to him without him even saying a word. "You really do have a problem," I said. And then I suddenly realized this is the reason he only ever really touches one of my boobs. He loves that boob. A lot. The other one may as well be invisible. It never gets any action.