My heart skipped when I spotted the set of bedsheets with matching comforter that complemented the color scheme of my bedroom.

A sense of excitement flushed over me as I gently positioned them in my shopping cart next to the memory foam bath mats.

I have never been more frightened in my life.

Is this what life has come to? Thrilled by new bedsheets? That I bought? While shopping? On purpose?

Adulting not only stinks, it’s disconcerting.

All my life, things like bedsheets, shirts and underwear just showed up.

Pull back the bedspread. Bam! Bedsheets. Open the drawer. Boom! Underwear. Slide back the closet door. Pow! Shirts and pants.

It was magic. By which, I mean Mom did it.

Eventually, the calendar claimed that I was a legal adult, supposedly able to handle responsibilities myself. Instead, I got married.

My stress-free life continued. Pull back the bedspread. Bam! Bedsheets. Open the drawer. Boom! Underwear. Slide back the closet door. Pow! Shirts and pants.

It was magic. By which, I mean my wife handled it.

Sometimes, the magic worked in reverse. Favorite T-shirts vanished just when I was getting them broken in. I’d find them misplaced in the rag bag. Moms and wives tend to mistake thin, well-ventilated clothing for spill sopper-uppers.

“Hey, I was still wearing that,” I’d protest.

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh. I thought I was.”

Now I am a widower. I live alone in an apartment. If I want cookies in the cupboard, I have to go to the grocery store all by myself. If I don’t want to be out on the street, I have to compile the bills and write the checks without help.

If I want to stay up past my bedtime, there’s no one to tell me that’s a bad idea — although my alarm clock lets me know far too brightly and way too early the next morning.

The nightmare began with socks and boxer shorts. I had run out of clean ones. No fresh laundry had magically appeared.

So, I did what any self-respecting single guy would do — I bought new ones. Thus began my downward spiral.

A couple months ago, I tossed a half-dozen pair of boxer shorts into the rag bag. Without anyone ordering me to do so. I immediately took my temperature and lay down for a while. Obviously, I wasn’t well.

A week ago, while wandering around my apartment, I noticed that the bedsheets, which my late wife had brought home years earlier, didn’t go with the decor. I didn’t even know what decor meant.

On my next grocery store run, I somehow — and I’m still unclear as to how — ended up nosing around a bed and bath section of a department store.

And there they were. The perfect sheets and comforter set. Shades of cobalt, cornflower and baby blues were intermingled with navy and cerulean blues. Glacier gray pillowcases accented the blues.

It was beautiful.

It horrified me that I knew what cerulean and glacier were. But they were perfect for my decor (whatever decor might be).

Even worse, I returned to the store the next day. I couldn’t get the set of teal bedsheets out of my mind. They were almost sea foam, but not quite mint. I just had to have that set.

I fairly skipped to the checkout line with my new set of sheets.

How did this happen? Next month, will I be overcome by an urge to run out and buy tableware that matches the drapes? Do I even have drapes? I suppose I should look. Where can I find them? Google wants to know if I want single-panel, pinch-pleat or goblet-pleat curtains? What does any of that even mean?

I’m terrified. Is there some kind of treatment program that can cure this affliction? Will I go into remission from this malady if I remarry, or will I insist on accompanying my bride on trips to Bed, Bath & Beyond, H&M or Macy’s?

I’m going to mull over those thoughts tonight as I head over to the home goods store. I noticed last night that the pad on my ironing board clashes with the dish towels. How can a guy think with that kind of chaos at home?

Send help to Burt at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook. Make sure to coordinate the fonts on your message.