Hick is not a woman. I suppose that kind of goes without saying. But I am making a point here.
As a not-woman, Hick fails to see a problem with closing the door to the walk-in closet in the master bathroom. He must be going through a mid-life crisis. He never closed the closet door before, in all the fourteen years we have dwelt in the House That Hick Built. Now he seals that sucker tighter than a pressurized submarine portal. For reasons that Mystery, Inc., with the help of Velma's entire family of Mensa-recruits, could not ascertain.
Maybe Hick does not like the gaping dark orifice behind him in the mirror as he readies himself for work at 5:30 a.m. Perhaps he's had a bad experience chanting "Bloody Mary" three times while gazing into that mirror. Or...he might just want to accentuate the recently-stained frame around the door by putting an actual door in the middle of it.
As a woman, I have grown used to years of easy access to my clothes. After showering, I simply walk into my walk-in closet and grab a stunning outfit, (perhaps velvet, as once suggested by George Costanza), to drape myself in for a day of educating the citizens of tomorrow. Now I find my easy access blocked. Blocked like YouTube on a public school computer network. Simply elbowing the door does not make it open. But it does give me an elbow abrasion. To avoid injury, I must turn the door handle to gain entrance.
Notice I said, "Handle." Not doorknob. Because the one thing you want throughout the new house when you are moving in with a three-year-old and an about-to-be-born baby is a classy French door handle lever thingy instead of a round, turny doorknob. Why not? You know that your children will be refined art-lovers, simply ecstatic that their rustic cedar home contains French door levers, and will never, ever, yank on those handles repeatedly, like a parched drifter jacking the handle at the town water pump, or a hobo racing a hand cart down the tracks, until the insides of the French door levers hoist a white flag and retire, forever, from latching doors. And of course, your classy French door levers would never poke a toddler in the eye, or snag sleeves or hoods or backpack straps as an innocent victim walked by.
I suppose I could ask Hick why he closes the closet door now. But it's much more satisfying to fling it open and leave it, like we did in the salad days.