Guess what I found myself doing yesterday. Straightening the magazines at Barnes & Noble. And that was after I’d sorted out the greeting card mess. Behavior like this is a symptom, isn’t it? Of OCD or something worse. Maybe not the obsessive part so much, but the compulsive has certainly manifested itself. I believe this is a cause for concern. Worry, even. A little early for panic, though.
The tendency’s always been there, I suppose. I just didn’t recognize it as a serious issue, a crippling affliction. Until yesterday. Standing there in Barnes & Noble. Magazines in hand. That’s when it hit me: I’m Adrian Monk. How did this happen? When? Why?
As the full extent of my disorder dawned on me, I realized I’ve been doing this stuff for quite a while. Straightening things. Things that are not mine. Things whose neatness and order should not concern me. But does, a lot. I straighten t-shirts at the Gap. I put books in proper alphabetical order at the library. Straighten the pictures in doctor’s examining rooms. Tidy up at the laundromat. It’s a full-blown sickness.
You’ve heard the expression, ‘a clean desk is the sign of a sick mind,’ right? Well, tada.
Wouldn’t this make a fine exhibit at a psychiatry seminar? And let’s not forget my closet. I shouldn’t be telling you all this — I’ll wind up in bed restraints.
Maybe a call to a professional is in order here? No. No, bad idea. I’d spend the whole afternoon cleaning fingerprints off my damn cell phone.
Paging Dr. Freud, Dr. Sigmund Freud.
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