When people take personality tests, they’re asked to rate their habits to see if they’re guardians, nurturers, performers or givers.

I took one this past weekend, and I scored on the easy-going side. Because I fibbed on a few of the answers, the test reflected what I wanted it to say — extroverted and non-judgmental.

Until I looked in the linen closet.

My husband put away the towels, and they weren’t folded in thirds. The shelf is narrow, and the towels fit better if they’re folded in thirds versus in half.

I refolded the towels and the washcloths – the folded edge needs to be facing outwards – and lined up the extra bars of soap.

After I was sure the linen closet was tidy, I went back in the kitchen and, while rearranging the spices in the cabinet, told my husband how I’d scored on the quiz. He hid behind the newspaper.

“Well, I’m not particular about things, “I said, sensing his reluctance to talk about my score on the test.

“Except for the toilet paper,” he replied.

I’ll give him that one.

When I was a teenager, there was a major news story about an imminent truckers strike. Newscasters were warning people to stock up on canned foods and paper items.

For some reason, it struck me that the Winn Dixie could be out of toilet paper for months.

I made my mother buy at least 20 rolls of Charmin, and my dad thought my fretting was the funniest thing he’d ever heard.

So much, in fact, that he gave me a four-roll package of toilet paper for Christmas.

But that irrational fear has stuck with me. To this day, I always have at least 10 extra rolls of toilet tissue in the linen closet.

My husband cleared his throat again.

“And those pillows on the bed,” he said.

Well, of course, the pillows on the bed have to be lined up. If the smaller pillows are thrown on top of the bed in every which way, the bed looks messy and untidy.

“And don’t forget the pillows on the couch,” my husband added.

That’s not even being particular. Two pillows go on either end of the couch – coordinating patterns on either side, and the long pillow goes in the middle.

“Everybody’s picky about the couch pillows,” I said defensively.

“You’re right,” my husband said, a light touch of sarcasm in his voice. “You’re not at all particular about things, like for instance, folding the clothes.”

Okay, I will admit to having a particular way of folding clothes. First, they have to be folded within minutes of the dryer’s buzzer going off.

T-shirts are folded with the design facing up so that when I reach into the drawer, I can see exactly what’s on the front of the shirt before I pull it out.

And permanent press items must be hung up immediately after being removed from the dryer.

“If you don’t hang the shirts up right away, they’ll wrinkle,” I said, refolding the towels in the kitchen drawer.

My husband went back to reading the paper, asking if I was going to leave the dishes in the sink overnight since I wasn’t so particular.

“Are you kidding?” I said, looking at him as if he’d grown two heads. “And face that mess in the morning.”

Then it hit me.

I’m that curmudgeon who reads the newspaper from back to front, checks the clock radio every single night to make sure the volume’s at the right level for the morning alarm and separates the dinner forks from the salad forks in the kitchen drawer.

I’m the minus 10 on the personality quiz.

Tonight I’m going to live dangerously and leave the dishes in the sink, forget about rearranging the pillows on the couch and leave the clothes in the dryer overnight.

This deluded person – who fudges on a magazine personality quiz so she’s not in the bottom half of the answer sheet in the back of the magazine – just might break the mold and run with scissors, drink milk out of the carton and leave the top off the peanut butter jar over night.

Look out world. Change is a-comin.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.