In a just world, OCD would be a young person’s disorder. They’re energetic and motivated, fully equipped to handle unrelenting coercion. I’m tired and trending toward dormant.
Yesterday, however, I stirred myself just enough to knock the coffee pot off the counter. The one that came with the coffeemaker. A glass disco ball of a thing. It did just what you’d expect; it exploded on impact. An explosion on the order of the Big Bang. Particles flew everywhere. Galaxies were created. A brand new firmament of twinkly, spangled stars spread before me. I didn’t feel godlike, I felt put upon.
Twenty minutes of intense effort is manageable. Even an hour is doable — bitterly resented, but doable. Four hours, the usual time frame for grand scale cleanups, is a bitch. A domineering, overbearing bitch. My shoulders slumped, my chin dropped to my chest, a weary sigh escaped, and I wondered if it wouldn’t be easier to move. But I have OCD. I’d no choice, I’m a slave to my compulsions, so I set about restoring order to the ugly, shattered universe I’d just created.
I swept and I vacuumed. I vacuumed and I swept. I wet Swiffered. I dry Swiffered. I scoured the countertops. I scoured the dog’s bowls. Then I started over. Three times.
For the finale, I shoveled the whole mess into a shoe box, sealed it shut with packing tape, and escorted it to the dumpster for a private burial. I wasn’t gentle and my eulogy was a gush of profanity.
I won’t unclench for a week. Or attempt to make coffee. Or do much of anything besides wonder how it feels to be laidback. Is it wondrous? I bet it’s wondrous. I have a good imagination, you know, but I can’t imagine not feeling whelmed at the sight of dog fur or dirty laundry or the unkempt magazines in a book store.
Tell me, what’s it like to be normal? Pleeeeze, help me out here. Paint a picture of well—adjusted for me. Let me live vicariously.
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the whirly girl 
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