The times I've experienced sheer and utter panic are few and far between. Like most people, I have a tendency to get caught up in the minutia and sometimes lose sight of what a disaster really is.
This past Saturday evening, I experienced a panic so profound that words will probably never be able to truly articulate. Edward had driven home after a wine tour to attend to our cat. I stayed up north with friends and planned to return home the next morning. Before he left, I kissed him and asked him to call or text when he got home.
He never did.
The moment that I realized I should have heard from him and didn't felt like slow motion. My brow furrowed, my brain processed how much time had passed since he left and my body was overtaken with a deluge of panic.
I am generally decent in a crisis. I am extra decent when it's someone else's crisis. But I learned this past weekend that the closer my crisis is to ground zero, the more incoherent and useless I become.
Our brains are supposed to protect us from trauma, right? This is why people dissociate and repress. How does it make any sense then that in the least appropriate moment, my brain conjures up images that would make Wes Craven cringe?
My rational self realized that Edward had probably gotten home, forgotten to contact me and fallen asleep. This was very likely. This would not be out of character. In fact, it would be very much within his character.
No matter. The 10% chance that he was unconscious in a ditch somewhere overruled all else. I imagined him in my mangled Honda somewhere in a valley. I imagined him being unable to call for help because his phone had gone missing during the accident. I imagined him having a flat tire and being overtaken by road bandits while putting on the spare. I imagined having to clean out his closet and sell all of our furniture because I couldn't bear to keep any of it.
It seems odd that my brain would start the grieving process so early.
In between mentally sorting out my husband's possessions and preventing my heart from forcibly exiting my chest, my best friend took charge of the situation. She convinced a friend of ours to go to my house to see if he was there. After an agonizing 25 minute wait, Edward called sheepish and regretful. She had woken him from sleep and as we'd guessed, he had simply forgotten.
I was relieved but also angry. However, I also thought sleep was once again a possibility. It seemed logical that I could rest knowing that all was well.
Despite knowing that he was safe, my body refused to cooperate. My heart was still racing and I felt small bursts of electricity running white hot through my veins. At one point, I turned to Stuart and cried my eyes out. I would do the same thing again upon returning home.
Even now, 3 days later, I'm feeling the after effects of so much adrenaline. Sleeping has been difficult and I feel like I've been robbed of my energy. Recently, there have been a number of "life challenges" and although perhaps this should have put things in perspective, it has only served to wear me out.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Higher Learning
My college research professor never had sex. I know this because he was in his office. All the time. Not having sex. Or perhaps more specifically, not having sex with another person. His research was his life, his sex partner and perhaps even more disturbingly, his idea of fun.
I spent the last two years of my undergraduate studies working with him on various research projects. No question about it, he was a brilliant man. But he never really mastered that life/work balance. And he felt that we, his loyal subjects, shouldn't either.
I spent many a Saturday administering questionnaires and conducting interviews with low income 12-year-olds who were just there for the free snacks. I spent many an evening trapped in "research meetings" that were somehow supposed to be less awful because he bought us pizza. (It helped. But I would have been happier with a can of soup at home.)
I had designs on graduate school for most of my college career. And after working with Dr. Slavedriver, I knew that I needed a break. After graduation, I got a job in my field thinking that I would take a short sabbatical from collegiate life but that a secondary degree was inevitably around the corner.
Never happened. I periodically checked in with myself and even researched grad schools a few times. I continued to feel that I was not ready to immerse myself in that environment again. Perhaps having a life outside of education was intoxicating. Or I'm just really lazy.
But in the last year or two, something has changed. An advanced degree in my current line of work doesn't make sense. I have to do continuing education so that satisfies my desire to learn somewhat.
Without trying to sound like a Rosetta Stone commercial, I've realized that I want to learn via travel. And really, that is sort of an odd thing for me. I love to be at home. I like being comfortable, having my stuff around and knowing exactly where everything is. But I've also realized that being in strange countries invigorates me. It challenges me on a level that I don't remember feeling since I was a fresh-faced first year student.
At home, history puts me to sleep. But when I'm standing in front of it, it's fascinating. I come home with a new appreciation for so many things. The world seems both bigger and smaller at the same time. And I find myself feeling a little more content in my corner of the world.
I spent the last two years of my undergraduate studies working with him on various research projects. No question about it, he was a brilliant man. But he never really mastered that life/work balance. And he felt that we, his loyal subjects, shouldn't either.
I spent many a Saturday administering questionnaires and conducting interviews with low income 12-year-olds who were just there for the free snacks. I spent many an evening trapped in "research meetings" that were somehow supposed to be less awful because he bought us pizza. (It helped. But I would have been happier with a can of soup at home.)
I had designs on graduate school for most of my college career. And after working with Dr. Slavedriver, I knew that I needed a break. After graduation, I got a job in my field thinking that I would take a short sabbatical from collegiate life but that a secondary degree was inevitably around the corner.
Never happened. I periodically checked in with myself and even researched grad schools a few times. I continued to feel that I was not ready to immerse myself in that environment again. Perhaps having a life outside of education was intoxicating. Or I'm just really lazy.
But in the last year or two, something has changed. An advanced degree in my current line of work doesn't make sense. I have to do continuing education so that satisfies my desire to learn somewhat.
Without trying to sound like a Rosetta Stone commercial, I've realized that I want to learn via travel. And really, that is sort of an odd thing for me. I love to be at home. I like being comfortable, having my stuff around and knowing exactly where everything is. But I've also realized that being in strange countries invigorates me. It challenges me on a level that I don't remember feeling since I was a fresh-faced first year student.
At home, history puts me to sleep. But when I'm standing in front of it, it's fascinating. I come home with a new appreciation for so many things. The world seems both bigger and smaller at the same time. And I find myself feeling a little more content in my corner of the world.
Mommy Don't Live Here No More
Patience is not my strong point. Certain things annoy me. And other certain things REALLY annoy me. In order to avoid being a narcissistic asshole (of which I am occasionally guilty), I do try to look inward to determine why Annoying Annie has such a ragey-ragey effect on me.
Sometimes I discover that a person reminds me of someone I knew in the past. Or someone who hurt me. Or someone who unceremoniously dumped the contents of our shared locker in the 8th grade hallway along with my Tiger Beat posters of Kirk Cameron. Not that I keep track of that sort of thing.
And sometimes... that person is someone who irks me irrational and insane levels simply because they fucking do.
I currently have a person in my life who falls in the Bi-Reasonal Category. She has personality traits that I also have (which I try to keep locked up) and she's generally garden variety annoying.
This person has never really grown up. And although I only have a couple of years on her, sometimes it feels like decades. She assumes I'm in charge of everything. And despite the many boundaries I've drawn around myself in order to keep from committing sodomy with a toilet brush, she continues to ask me the same fucking questions and make the same fucking assumptions (which are generally associated with me making every known decision in the universe).
Admittedly, I maintain a level of annoyance with her most of the time so she is at an unfair advantage on the How-Close-Am-I-To-Constructing-A-Voodoo-Doll-Of-You scale. Every time I want to shake her violently and scream at her to stop living like an 18 year old, I try to remind myself that I'm probably already irritated with her and am overreacting to the current annoyance-du-jour.
She does have positive qualities and is heavily enmeshed in my group of friends. I do occasionally enjoy her company. She isn't a bad person. I can, in my rational state, acknowledge this.
I do, however, wish she would find a different "leader." Perhaps, a lemming...
Sometimes I discover that a person reminds me of someone I knew in the past. Or someone who hurt me. Or someone who unceremoniously dumped the contents of our shared locker in the 8th grade hallway along with my Tiger Beat posters of Kirk Cameron. Not that I keep track of that sort of thing.
And sometimes... that person is someone who irks me irrational and insane levels simply because they fucking do.
I currently have a person in my life who falls in the Bi-Reasonal Category. She has personality traits that I also have (which I try to keep locked up) and she's generally garden variety annoying.
This person has never really grown up. And although I only have a couple of years on her, sometimes it feels like decades. She assumes I'm in charge of everything. And despite the many boundaries I've drawn around myself in order to keep from committing sodomy with a toilet brush, she continues to ask me the same fucking questions and make the same fucking assumptions (which are generally associated with me making every known decision in the universe).
Admittedly, I maintain a level of annoyance with her most of the time so she is at an unfair advantage on the How-Close-Am-I-To-Constructing-A-Voodoo-Doll-Of-You scale. Every time I want to shake her violently and scream at her to stop living like an 18 year old, I try to remind myself that I'm probably already irritated with her and am overreacting to the current annoyance-du-jour.
She does have positive qualities and is heavily enmeshed in my group of friends. I do occasionally enjoy her company. She isn't a bad person. I can, in my rational state, acknowledge this.
I do, however, wish she would find a different "leader." Perhaps, a lemming...
Monday, January 16, 2012
The Right Stuff
I have a love/hate relationship with stuff. I love to buy things but I hate clutter so I also love to throw things away. As I become older and more crotchety, I have become more particular about the stuff I accumulate. I want what I want which means that you should give those chotchkes to someone who will appreciate them.
My mother loves to buy me stuff. And when it happens to be things from a link that I've sent her, that is wonderful. However, she also buys me lots of crap. I've gently explained to her that I would really prefer she not do this. She appears to understand but two weeks later I will receive a random something-or-other because it reminded her of me. Most notably, I received a small print of cats in people-clothes with eyes that follow you across the room. It's creepy. It's currently stowed in the guest bedroom because I am scared of it (and because we keep the door shut so I'm reasonably certain it cannot get out). I do also give some of the things she gives me away to people who would like them more than I do. I made the mistake of telling her the last time I did this and there was a meltdown. I maintain that once it's been given to me, I am free to do with it as I please and if you are so attached to the outcome, you should probably never give me anything. (I have yet to solve the conundrum of telling vs. not telling. I'm thinking the meltdown really wasn't worth it and I may have to become the person who "loses things".)
Because of the abundance of stuff (and other emotional therapy-worthy reasons), I'm not a big fan of Christmas. This year, my inlaws gave us taster dishes. It was an appropriate gift because Edward cooks a lot and we do a fair amount of entertaining. However, it's one more thing to store. It will be one more thing to pack and move when we leave our home. It will be one more thing we come across while cleaning out a cabinet and say "Oh, we should have used these for the Dungeon-warming party."
I don't mean to sound ungrateful. More than the actual gift, I appreciate the time spent looking for it and picking it out. Much of the time, I would be happy if the person took a picture of the item and sent it to me with a note that says "This really reminds me of you. I'd love to buy it for you but I know you don't like stuff so just know that I was thinking of you *and* willing to plunk down the $15 for a watch with a stripping Batman on it." That would truly warm the cockles of my heart because it means I am loved and it also means I don't have to figure what to do with something I will never use, wear or look at. And best of all, I will never have to confess that I gave a stripping Batman watch to my very confused niece.
I realize this makes me a difficult person to shop for but the solution is simple. Don't buy me things. I won't be offended and you save money. It's win/win. And if you do buy me something anyway, just know that I will really enjoy throwing it away.
My mother loves to buy me stuff. And when it happens to be things from a link that I've sent her, that is wonderful. However, she also buys me lots of crap. I've gently explained to her that I would really prefer she not do this. She appears to understand but two weeks later I will receive a random something-or-other because it reminded her of me. Most notably, I received a small print of cats in people-clothes with eyes that follow you across the room. It's creepy. It's currently stowed in the guest bedroom because I am scared of it (and because we keep the door shut so I'm reasonably certain it cannot get out). I do also give some of the things she gives me away to people who would like them more than I do. I made the mistake of telling her the last time I did this and there was a meltdown. I maintain that once it's been given to me, I am free to do with it as I please and if you are so attached to the outcome, you should probably never give me anything. (I have yet to solve the conundrum of telling vs. not telling. I'm thinking the meltdown really wasn't worth it and I may have to become the person who "loses things".)
Because of the abundance of stuff (and other emotional therapy-worthy reasons), I'm not a big fan of Christmas. This year, my inlaws gave us taster dishes. It was an appropriate gift because Edward cooks a lot and we do a fair amount of entertaining. However, it's one more thing to store. It will be one more thing to pack and move when we leave our home. It will be one more thing we come across while cleaning out a cabinet and say "Oh, we should have used these for the Dungeon-warming party."
I don't mean to sound ungrateful. More than the actual gift, I appreciate the time spent looking for it and picking it out. Much of the time, I would be happy if the person took a picture of the item and sent it to me with a note that says "This really reminds me of you. I'd love to buy it for you but I know you don't like stuff so just know that I was thinking of you *and* willing to plunk down the $15 for a watch with a stripping Batman on it." That would truly warm the cockles of my heart because it means I am loved and it also means I don't have to figure what to do with something I will never use, wear or look at. And best of all, I will never have to confess that I gave a stripping Batman watch to my very confused niece.
I realize this makes me a difficult person to shop for but the solution is simple. Don't buy me things. I won't be offended and you save money. It's win/win. And if you do buy me something anyway, just know that I will really enjoy throwing it away.
35... Going on 80
I don't do resolutions. I don't "turn over a new leaf" come January. And I don't make lame proclamations that THIS is the year I will <fill in the blank>.
However, there's been a concept that's been floating around in my head for some time that's just finally come together in a cohesive thought. And it's my new philosophy.
I worry too much about what other people think. I worry too much about what I think. I wonder if the mailman thinks I'm a perv. I wonder if people at Walmart think I'm a hoarder because I buy 6 boxes of Kleenex at a time. When purchasing new deodorant, I try to do my sniffing inconspicuously so people don't think I have a problem.
Getting off the I'm-concerned-with-everyone's-opinion-of-me-including-people-I-don't-like train is no easy task. I don't care how old you are - no one wants to be the creepy kid eating lunch by him/herself.
However, it's not healthy, it's time-consuming and it's a killer of stuff-doing because you fear looking silly.
So, my detour around such ruminations is to ask myself: What would I do when I'm 80?
When I'm 80, I will fart audibly and unapologetically in Walgreens. I will gleefully present my AARP card to get discounts. I will fake frailty to get priority boarding on airplanes. I will wear hot pink hats to dinner because I FEEL LIKE IT. I will fling my dentures at my dining companion because it's funny. I will plant a hair from my head in my food and claim it's a pube to get a free meal. I will use and abuse my age as much as possible but above all, I will do whatever the hell I want. Why? Because I'm 80.
I think it's karmically acceptable to "borrow" my 80-year-old-ness a little early. If I'm senile at 80, then I'll be happy not to have wasted it. I won't have to write pithy essays about all the things I wish I knew when I was younger. I won't bemoan the fact that "youth is wasted on the young." I will bask in the fact that I borrowed my sass and used it well. I will gloat that I did the things I wanted to do while I still could.
Now go away. I need to watch my stories.
However, there's been a concept that's been floating around in my head for some time that's just finally come together in a cohesive thought. And it's my new philosophy.
I worry too much about what other people think. I worry too much about what I think. I wonder if the mailman thinks I'm a perv. I wonder if people at Walmart think I'm a hoarder because I buy 6 boxes of Kleenex at a time. When purchasing new deodorant, I try to do my sniffing inconspicuously so people don't think I have a problem.
Getting off the I'm-concerned-with-everyone's-opinion-of-me-including-people-I-don't-like train is no easy task. I don't care how old you are - no one wants to be the creepy kid eating lunch by him/herself.
However, it's not healthy, it's time-consuming and it's a killer of stuff-doing because you fear looking silly.
So, my detour around such ruminations is to ask myself: What would I do when I'm 80?
When I'm 80, I will fart audibly and unapologetically in Walgreens. I will gleefully present my AARP card to get discounts. I will fake frailty to get priority boarding on airplanes. I will wear hot pink hats to dinner because I FEEL LIKE IT. I will fling my dentures at my dining companion because it's funny. I will plant a hair from my head in my food and claim it's a pube to get a free meal. I will use and abuse my age as much as possible but above all, I will do whatever the hell I want. Why? Because I'm 80.
I think it's karmically acceptable to "borrow" my 80-year-old-ness a little early. If I'm senile at 80, then I'll be happy not to have wasted it. I won't have to write pithy essays about all the things I wish I knew when I was younger. I won't bemoan the fact that "youth is wasted on the young." I will bask in the fact that I borrowed my sass and used it well. I will gloat that I did the things I wanted to do while I still could.
Now go away. I need to watch my stories.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Angry Johnny
I have just returned from 5 days in the Midwest. This trip had a few unusual perks - I had both partners with me, we stayed in our own place and we had a vehicle. I got to see two longtime friends and be a little more of a tourist in my hometown (which, admittedly, was fun).
I haven't yet been home12 hours. My ears have mostly popped, I've unpacked and already have laundry started. And I realize that I'm angry. Really angry.
I've reached a point of no return with my mother. The older I get, the less we have in common and the less I enjoy her company. This, in and of itself, is guilt-inducing because I know there will be a day in not too distant future when she's not around.
However... I also cannot ignore the overwhelming desire to shake her violently. My mother is in her mid 60's but has the coping skills and maturity of a 10 year old. Does this make me sound elitist? Damn fucking right it does. I've spent much of my adult life in therapy learning how to be a mature person with appropriate coping skills and appropriate boundaries. My mother's approach has been to find a partner who will cater to her whims and SOMEHOW ignore the fact that she's never really grown up emotionally.
Cases in point:
We had reservations for Christmas brunch. My mother was unhappy with where our table was located in relation to the buffet. She asked the hostess if we could move to a closer table. The hostess went to check and while she was gone, my mother complained loudly about how long it was taking. When the hostess returned, she explained that all the tables were reserved and we could not be moved. My mother said "But I just had knee surgery and can't walk that far." The first part is true, the second part... not so much. The wait staff offered to get/carry her plates for her while my mother remained silent. As we started to settle at our table (which was rather pleasant because we were away from loud children/people), my mother loudly said "And I made these reservations MONTHS AGO." The hostess again apologized while my mother continued to grumble. When she doesn't get what she wants, she will often treat the wait staff poorly. It's kind of like ignoring your best friend as of yesterday at lunch today. Really fucking childish.
And THEN... she had her heart set on taking us to a brewery for lunch on our last day. We realized it would be our last chance to eat at a local fast food restaurant that Edward and I love and had been talking up to Stuart for oh... five years. I told her that we would prefer to do that instead. She opted not to join us for lunch at all.
My therapist says that resentment is poison for relationships. And I resent the hell out of the fact that my mother behaves in the way that she does.
Ultimately, I know that if there was ever a time to summon my superhero coping skills, this is it. But I don't know if I'll ever truly be able to silence the child who really feels she deserved a better role model.
I haven't yet been home12 hours. My ears have mostly popped, I've unpacked and already have laundry started. And I realize that I'm angry. Really angry.
I've reached a point of no return with my mother. The older I get, the less we have in common and the less I enjoy her company. This, in and of itself, is guilt-inducing because I know there will be a day in not too distant future when she's not around.
However... I also cannot ignore the overwhelming desire to shake her violently. My mother is in her mid 60's but has the coping skills and maturity of a 10 year old. Does this make me sound elitist? Damn fucking right it does. I've spent much of my adult life in therapy learning how to be a mature person with appropriate coping skills and appropriate boundaries. My mother's approach has been to find a partner who will cater to her whims and SOMEHOW ignore the fact that she's never really grown up emotionally.
Cases in point:
We had reservations for Christmas brunch. My mother was unhappy with where our table was located in relation to the buffet. She asked the hostess if we could move to a closer table. The hostess went to check and while she was gone, my mother complained loudly about how long it was taking. When the hostess returned, she explained that all the tables were reserved and we could not be moved. My mother said "But I just had knee surgery and can't walk that far." The first part is true, the second part... not so much. The wait staff offered to get/carry her plates for her while my mother remained silent. As we started to settle at our table (which was rather pleasant because we were away from loud children/people), my mother loudly said "And I made these reservations MONTHS AGO." The hostess again apologized while my mother continued to grumble. When she doesn't get what she wants, she will often treat the wait staff poorly. It's kind of like ignoring your best friend as of yesterday at lunch today. Really fucking childish.
And THEN... she had her heart set on taking us to a brewery for lunch on our last day. We realized it would be our last chance to eat at a local fast food restaurant that Edward and I love and had been talking up to Stuart for oh... five years. I told her that we would prefer to do that instead. She opted not to join us for lunch at all.
My therapist says that resentment is poison for relationships. And I resent the hell out of the fact that my mother behaves in the way that she does.
Ultimately, I know that if there was ever a time to summon my superhero coping skills, this is it. But I don't know if I'll ever truly be able to silence the child who really feels she deserved a better role model.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Home Alone
I really thought I'd had enough alone time in my nerdy somewhat socially awkward childhood. As an only child with divorced parents, I had to become good at entertaining myself and being alone. And this was true... until I became poly.
As the wife of two husbands, mom to two cats, step-mom to two dogs and a cat, and personal trainer to the stars (not exactly but my clients are pretty fabulous), I am rarely alone. I have learned in the last couple of years that I really DO need my alone time. It's important. Really important. The difference between sane and crazy important.
It's tough to get. Both husbands work at home so unless there's a commitment that takes them away from the home and doesn't include me, I am not alone. And for reasons I can't really explain, alone time cannot happen unless I am truly alone. Partner may not be in the home. Really, it's preferable if partner is in an adjacent zip code (or farther). I have to wonder how much square footage I would need to be in the house with another person but feel alone. Would 5,000 square feet cut it? 10,000? Couldn't tell you.
Both husbands have graciously offered to leave the home to give me alone time. I haven't figured out how to say yes without feeling terribly guilty. Perhaps it's because I imagine one (or both) of them wandering grocery store aisles aimlessly and sadly caressing discount cans of soup. I'm not sure I could truly enjoy my alone time (which I tend to spend in frivolous ways - I am not solving the world's problems. I am trying to figure out how Kim Kardashian gets those cool smoky eyes) knowing one of them is intentionally staying away and checking the time to find out when they are allowed to come back. That is sadder than any movie where a dog is carted off to a farm where "he can run and play."
Edward left this morning to visit his father before meeting me on Thursday to visit my family. So, I have an actual 4 days to myself. One of the strange things I discovered is that when left to my own devices, I do things I do not generally do. Like cook. I tried a new recipe today. I almost never cook for myself. My interest in cooking is extremely limited and I'm usually only interested in healthy recipes as Edward has pretty well mastered recipes that would make Paula Deen blush. I also made myself a dirty martini. In a shaker. With ice and everything. I never do that either.
I also allow myself to indulge my OCD'ness a bit more. This occurs for two reasons. 1) I don't have to explain it and that is nice. I really cannot explain why I want to wipe down the washer and dryer after the laundry is done but the fact you ask reminds me that it's really probably kind of crazy and unnecessary BUT I WANT TO DO IT ANYWAY (and then I feel defensive about it even though it's a perfectly acceptable question). 2) No one will mess it up. Except me. And I suppose I could get mad at myself but I generally don't. I do get annoyed with other people getting their grimy fingerprints all over my OCD. Generally, it's safer to stay off that road. And because of that, I get slightly gleeful at being able to do it without irritating anybody. It's like OCD Home Alone Christmas. Minus Macaulay Culkin or Creepy Santa. Win.
As the wife of two husbands, mom to two cats, step-mom to two dogs and a cat, and personal trainer to the stars (not exactly but my clients are pretty fabulous), I am rarely alone. I have learned in the last couple of years that I really DO need my alone time. It's important. Really important. The difference between sane and crazy important.
It's tough to get. Both husbands work at home so unless there's a commitment that takes them away from the home and doesn't include me, I am not alone. And for reasons I can't really explain, alone time cannot happen unless I am truly alone. Partner may not be in the home. Really, it's preferable if partner is in an adjacent zip code (or farther). I have to wonder how much square footage I would need to be in the house with another person but feel alone. Would 5,000 square feet cut it? 10,000? Couldn't tell you.
Both husbands have graciously offered to leave the home to give me alone time. I haven't figured out how to say yes without feeling terribly guilty. Perhaps it's because I imagine one (or both) of them wandering grocery store aisles aimlessly and sadly caressing discount cans of soup. I'm not sure I could truly enjoy my alone time (which I tend to spend in frivolous ways - I am not solving the world's problems. I am trying to figure out how Kim Kardashian gets those cool smoky eyes) knowing one of them is intentionally staying away and checking the time to find out when they are allowed to come back. That is sadder than any movie where a dog is carted off to a farm where "he can run and play."
Edward left this morning to visit his father before meeting me on Thursday to visit my family. So, I have an actual 4 days to myself. One of the strange things I discovered is that when left to my own devices, I do things I do not generally do. Like cook. I tried a new recipe today. I almost never cook for myself. My interest in cooking is extremely limited and I'm usually only interested in healthy recipes as Edward has pretty well mastered recipes that would make Paula Deen blush. I also made myself a dirty martini. In a shaker. With ice and everything. I never do that either.
I also allow myself to indulge my OCD'ness a bit more. This occurs for two reasons. 1) I don't have to explain it and that is nice. I really cannot explain why I want to wipe down the washer and dryer after the laundry is done but the fact you ask reminds me that it's really probably kind of crazy and unnecessary BUT I WANT TO DO IT ANYWAY (and then I feel defensive about it even though it's a perfectly acceptable question). 2) No one will mess it up. Except me. And I suppose I could get mad at myself but I generally don't. I do get annoyed with other people getting their grimy fingerprints all over my OCD. Generally, it's safer to stay off that road. And because of that, I get slightly gleeful at being able to do it without irritating anybody. It's like OCD Home Alone Christmas. Minus Macaulay Culkin or Creepy Santa. Win.
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