 Could I give myself obsessive-compulsive disorder? | |
DAY 2
 I started my OCD experiment by obsessively washing my face and hands, up to a dozen times each day. But why stop there? Why not obsessively wash every room of my house, as well?
I took a visit to the local Wal-Mart, where I found -- and bought -- a dizzying array of anti-bacterial cleaners and disinfectants. I would not settle for clean. I would not even settle for hospital-sterile. No, I would not rest until I could fabricate computer chips in my kitchen. When I would come home at night, I'd slip off the work clothes, slip on the bunny suit. I could finally relax in my own home, for up to twelve seconds at a time. I spent the majority of the weekend mixing volatile chemical cocktails, hoping that the interaction of all these cleaners wouldn't cause my toilet to explode. And while we're on the subject, can we please clear up whether the zesty freshness of lemon trumps the cleansing power of orange? Last time I checked, wiping your counter with either fruit leaves a tremendous mess. The two scents battled it out in my house all weekend, until the place smelled like an ass dacquiri.  I have to say that it was pretty nice when I finally got finished cleaning (though I realize that "finished cleaning" are two words that don't go together in OCD-land). I had organized my drawers and closet, I had sorted and filed closetfuls of junk, and I had rearranged my canned goods in alphabetical order (not a joke). "I've never been more organized!" I shouted, taking a deep breath, and promptly choking on the cloud of ammonia. "I love my OCD!"
Later that day, I went to the grocery store -- this is true, folks -- and I picked up a few items, including a package of hamburger buns. A few aisles later, I remembered that I already had hamburger buns at home (filed under "B"), so I put the store buns back on a random shelf. For the rest of my shopping trip, the buns nagged at me. "A true compulsive could not leave the buns there," I told myself. "You have a perfectly-organized pantry at home. Why would you spread bun chaos at the store?" What made it worse was that I really had to use the rest room. My face and hands had become so dry from the constant washing that I had been drinking extra fluids, trying to restore some moisture to my skin. There was no way I was going to use the mangy supermarket urinal, of course, but my bladder was killing me. I hope it proves my dedication to this experiment that I eventually went back searching the aisles for my hamburger buns. I finally found them, next to the taco sauce, but then I couldn't find where they were supposed to go. I found the 8-packs in the bread aisle, but not the 12-packs. "For the love of Krishna," screamed my bladder, which is apparently Hindu, "just drop them with the 8-packs!" But my brain was stubborn. My brain refused to give in. Eventually, my brain, bladder and I located the 12-packs, then gingerly placed the buns atop the pile, making sure the label was pointing the right way, and that the pile was evenly stacked with those behind it. When I finally got home, I was in such a hurry that I ... well, I missed. Had the seat been up -- either seat -- it would have been fine. Fortunately, my urine didn't explode on contact with the Lysol/Comet/Scrubbing Bubble mixture that coated the floor, but all I could think about was how I was going to have to clean the bathroom again. Little did I know my OCD fun was only beginning. | |
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