My grandfather was a predictable man. He watched “Gunsmoke” every Saturday night, went to bed at the same time and always made sure he washed out the same plate, cup and saucer after dinner to use the next day.

I thought about my grandfather as I was rummaging around in our cutlery drawer, looking for one particular, mismatched fork. Finally, I spotted it in the bottom of the dishwasher, and I carefully retrieved it, happy I could finally sit down to dinner.

That’s when I sighed and realized an unmistakable fact – somewhere along the way, I’d left behind carefree and crossed over into predictability.

It’s easy to pooh-pooh that thought, especially when I tell myself I’m still hip and cool. Then again, using the words “hip” and “cool” is an automatic giveaway I’m over the hill.

I tried to rationalize my way out of admitting I’d become a stick in the mud. Using that one particular fork for every meal was a preference, nothing more.

Then I thought about the coffee cups.

We must have two dozen mismatched coffee cups in the kitchen cabinet. I can’t in good conscience throw them away, and my sisters have an unbreakable mantra about cups that keeps them in my cabinet – one must drink out of a cup or mug that bears an inspirational or special meaning. Hence the reason I use my “Barney Fife Nip It In The Bud” coffee mug day after day.

And I’m a bit persnickety about one bath towel. I usually buy a new towel when there’s a sale, and a worn one goes out to the garage… except for this blue towel.

It’s my favorite, even more than plush new ones because that old towel is incredibly soft. I wash it and put it right back on top of the stack in the cabinet. Why get rid of something that’s perfectly useful, I tell myself.

Truth be told, the curmudgeon signs are everywhere. I switch the channel with a big “harrumph” whenever a “Saved By The Bell” rerun appears, and I complain about people who drive too fast on neighborhood streets.

I’ve used the same wallet for the past 15 years because it’s finally soft and I know what’s in all the little hidden pockets, and I’ll use a purse until the straps break.

Next to my computer monitor is a beat-up address book, some with addresses erased five or six times. But I know to look for my cousin’s address under her maiden name, even though she’s been married 20 years.

I park on the same row whenever I go to the grocery store, even if the lot is empty, because that’s the only way I can find my car. More than once, I’ve wandered the parking lot, watching my ice cream melt, while searching for my vehicle.

I sit and stew at the stop light if the car next to me is vibrating from loud music, and I value soft flannel pajamas over silky ones.

I believe a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, washed down with a glass of cold milk, is fine eatin’, and there’s no better dessert on the planet than a plain Oreo cookie.

I simply appreciate the value of something weathered yet useful, something that might not be trendy or perfect but is useful.

Although I’d never consider myself a wild child, I am predictable, and I’ve come to accept that fact about myself.

Persnickety? Maybe.

Practical? Yep.

My grandfather would think that was just dandy.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.