Back in my college days, my roommate, Brent, and I each had what appeared to the uneducated eye to be stacks of random chaos on our desks.

“How can you work like that?” the uneducated interlopers demanded in disgust. They usually wrinkled their noses, too, which neither of us understood. The piles of laundry were on the other side of the room behind the closet doors.

But ask us for any sheet, form or record, and we knew exactly to what depth in the pile to pinch a piece of paper and extract the exact document. People tested us on this. We never failed.

It was our super-secret organization system. We never resorted to safes or padlocks; no one but us could find a thing.

Of course, that was back when I was 20 and my brain still functioned. Four-and-a-half decades later, some of the synapses no longer snap, the tread on cerebellum is worn to bald in spots and my memory banks are a few deposits short of full.

It can take me four or five dives into the pile before I find what I’m looking for. There’s even a chance these days that a sock or two is mixed in with the bills. By the time I find what I was looking for, I often can’t remember why I wanted it.

“Tut-tut. You need to get organized,” friends advised.

And there’s the crux of the problem. I tried to get organized once. I couldn’t find a thing.

I knew where my pants were when I hooked them on the weight bench or flung them over the laundry chair. But on a hanger and placed in my freshly organized closet — fooled me completely. They were lost for three weeks.

I just moved into a new apartment — two years ago — and I haven’t had time yet to establish where things go.

In the old days, I used to think I knew where to store my stuff. Then I got married and found out my thinking was thoughtless, and that anyone with half a brain would know that socks go there, saucepans nest in that cupboard and the bills get slotted into those cubbies.

Now, I am a widower with no idea where to store my stuff. The whole system of organization that my wife employed destroyed my confidence in knowing where things go.

Why not just leave things on the floor? It’s simple and effective. Everything I need is laid out before me, on display like in a museum. Or an in-home fitness obstacle course.

Plus, this method of organization doubles as an early warning intruder alert.

Some people can’t work unless every pencil, stapler and every dust bunny is arranged just so. I find organization the bane of productivity.

A friend of mine visiting from out of state thought that she would do me a great kindness. While I was at work, she went through my apartment, gathered everything off the floor, and “organized” the whole kit and kaboodle. She rearranged my kitchen so that it “made sense.”

I’m still looking for one steak knife, two spoons, a box of oatmeal, three cans of pears and the toaster. Everything else I’ve tracked down and put back where I can find them.

There’s one caveat to getting organized — the junk drawer. Or junk closet. Any junk drawer or closet in which you know where things are defeats the purpose, which is exploration and surprise.

Even the most fastidiously neat and organized person needs a safe space, a secret hiding place, to just toss or jam something inside and slam the drawer or door before anything explodes out.

What’s life without a little mystery?

Or just hire a professional organizer to put everything where it belongs. It’ll be months before you find all your stuff again.

If you can find your keyboard, send organizational tips to Cole at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.