Invisible friends

Yesterday, again, someone told me they were "OCD" about cleaning their house. I laugh this kind of thing off, asking if she could come over and clean my house, and then reflected on the idea that the person might, indeed, have OCD. Here is the difference: Person without OCD: I am obsessed with cleaning my house, therefore, I stayed up until 11pm cleaning. Person with OCD: I am obsessed with cleaning my house, therefore, I was unable to go to work because I couldn't stop thinking about a spot of mildew in my shower, but because mildew may not be visible right away, I had to scrub my entire shower with bleach, and then I had to shower three times afterward for fear of personal contamination, then I scratched at a spot on my arm until I scraped off all of the skin because I suspect it touched the mildew. I would never willingly announce to anyone that I have OCD because it is a recipe for a host of undesirable outcomes. Much the same as when someone accuses you ...

Recently, I was at a meeting and a woman, tongue in cheek, asked one of my colleagues and me, "Who is the most OCD among us?" as we arranged sticky notes on a large sheet of paper, conscious that they kept falling off. Well, I thought, cringing and internally raising my hand, that would be me... given that I actually have OCD. But, to an outsider that means the pursuit of perfection. The perfect line. The attention to detail, until it is utterly, perfectly, unassailably right. I submit to the court three examples: Exhibit A is my kitchen floor. Two weeks ago, while baking, I spilled a large number of oats on the floor, and while my husband helped me sweep them up, MANY OF THEM STILL REMAIN. Exhibit B is a pile of shoes in front of my back door that make it difficult to open the door from the garage side. Exhibit C is an expired coupon under the mail pile I planned to use, but am no longer able to. Eventually, maybe in a couple of months, I will recycle it. I am ...