I actually had a request for a new blog. This officially makes me famous, right? Ah, the good life.
So I started thinking of what I could write about. I have a few ideas that keep bumping around in my head like marbles in a tin can. They are making noise up there and need attended to. I was planning on writing about my birthday, or the snow-white alligator covering that I call skin. Mentally, I began preparing what to say.
I was on my way to lunch with some friends when I stumbled into (not onto, but into ) an unlikely topic that I would like to talk about.
But first, I need to wash my hands.
Just kidding. But I would like to discuss (or rather, post, as you are not actively talking with me at the moment) OCD.
Before you start feeling sorry for me, let me say that I do not have OCD. At least, I don't think I do. Do you think I do? Maybe I should ask someone....or I could just toss this coin....toss this coin....toss this coin.....gotta wash my hands again.
I was up the other night feeling rather sick from undercooked pizza (Snappy's, you let me down) when I made the age-old mistake of late night desperation.
I logged on to WebMD's symptom checker and clicked on the random uncomfortable things I was experiencing. Just as always, I was presented with a fun assortment of potential illnesses.
As I have not recently been to the island of Tuki-Mao, I could reasonably rule out the tropical disease I couldn't pronounce. Who eats sand lice anyways?
Several of my options were related to the brain. I could have anxiety (how observant of the virtual doctor) or be obsessive compulsive.
So I called my sister and asked if she thought I had OCD issues. Without pausing for thought, she replied a quick affirmative. We continued to talk about other important things until she broke the conversation with a triumphant, "I found it!".
When I asked what she had been looking for, she told me that she had been on her hands and knees for the past 17 minutes with a magnifying glass and tweezers, carefully combing Kendall's room for a hair clip that belongs to a doll. She had one clip, but couldn't rest until the other clip was safely back in Kaya's tangled hair.
I'm not saying that Talitha was obsessed by OCD standards, but she was awfully intent on finding that hair accessory.
My friend Codi (remember, she had the bluebird infested wedding?) and I have had a few conversations about our...eccentricities. I actually used to fear that I was strange enough to wear a tight white coat until Codi and I started swapping our OCD-esque stories.
Codi has to place her curlers back in the exact same position every day, or something Bad and Terrible will happen to her husband.
Whilst eating our healthy lunch at Name That Fried Food, I noticed that Codi has to tie her straw wrapper in a knot and then tear the knot into two equal pieces. These two pieces become four, and then are rolled into four small straw wrapper hedgehogs.
Codi knows that if the curlers do not get put back correctly, Daniel has the same odds of being trampled by an angry bull. But the curler organization makes her feel better, so she does it.
I could probably wet her straw wrapper to keep the hedgehogs from joining our meal. Most likely, she would remain calm and not steal my fried water. But the wrapper rodents are a habit that she has picked up over time, and it certainly isn't hurting anyone. Therefore, she wrapper rolls.
Codi probably has some stranger habits that she chose not to share. I certainly wouldn't divulge my weirdest compulsions to anyone unless under the influence of that gas my dentist uses.
But with the harsh words of my Web Dr. ringing in my ears, I have been wondering if I am...how should I put this....normal.
I have to sleep with my pillows positioned like batteries. That is, the outside flaps of the pillowcases have to be facing in opposite directions. Otherwise I simply cannot sleep.
I count the number of syllables when people talk. If there are, say 22 syllables in a sentence, I break that down into two sets of 11 syllable groups. If that eleventh syllable falls in the middle of a word, so be it! Nothing will keep my nimble little brain from having syllabic order.
This makes listening to a lecture or a sermon particularly difficult, as I am trying to take in the information while counting and regrouping and repeating it back to myself.
I have always known that Syllable Counting is not exactly an Olympic sport. However, I'm hoping that it is not as weird as I have always feared.
Why should I care? Honestly, if it was only as bad as the pillow issue, I could deal with it. Pillowcases facing out is easy to accomplish. Counting is strange, to be sure. But it isn't hurting anything except my concentration.
I'm bothered by this issue lately because I now find myself obsessing over life. Actually its been more about death.
I've always been a rather morbid person. Not in the scary goth way, but in a reflective to the point of obsessed way.
Most people try to remember that they should kiss their spouse before leaving for work, because you never know when goodbye will be for the last time. I'm more on the opposite camp; I am the one hanging on to Austin's legs as he is trying to get out the door. Each time I am genuinely afraid that he won't come back.
Don't even get me started about what my thoughts turn to when flu season comes around and there is STILL only vaccine for 23 people in the entire Western Hempisphere.
I realize that my fears are often unfounded, and sometimes even obsessive. (There's that word again)
I think that all of my pillow arranging and Codi's curler conundrums are about control. It's not a stretch, I don't think.
Like most people, I want to keep hurt and sickness and cellulite out of my life. I realized early on that no matter what, most things are out of my hands. So I came up with silly little things to make myself feel like I could control something. I might not be able to explain why bad things happen, but gosh darn it, I WILL have syllabic perfection.
This turned out to be a little more morose than I intended. I'm sorry for that. My faithful reader might be disappointed, because she asked for humor.
I don't mean to do a Doogie Howser, but I really do think that this has given me some insight. I still think that I have some very strange eccentricities, but I'm not sure I could be classified as OCD.
After all, what does Web Dr know? Stupid git doesn't even know my name and will probably charge me $254.81 for his expert opinion.
Its enough to make me want to eat sand lice