I have noticed a lot of changes in my life since I entered my thirties, but the most mystifying one to me is the inordinate amount of concern I have over the sharpness of our kitchen knives. I often find myself wistfully recalling the Ginsu knife commercials of the 1970’s where they sliced up aluminum cans and thinking, “Why can’t my knives be that sharp?”

So about two weeks ago I finally took our knives in to be professionally sharpened. Everything was going along just fine until the man helping me asked me what I wanted him to do about the edges on one particular group of knives, in a tone that suggested that, a) I should know exactly what he was talking about, b) clearly the mere fact that these knives even had this type of edge should have been keeping me up at night, and c) I should apologize for even owning that kind of knife, much less bringing it into a professional cutlery establishment.

I decided to do what anyone would do when faced with a room full of sharp knives, dangerous machinery, and a very large man with bulging, tattoo-laden biceps who tests knife blades by slicing off his own arm hair. I told him to do whatever he wanted.

So he did, and now that our knives cut well again I am ready to be seized by a new compulsion. I’ll keep you posted as things develop.