for example:
...while jogging, any cracks, bumps, or lines in the sidewalk that i may hit have to be hit with my right foot...ONLY! also while jogging, any live worms must be "rescued" and put back in the grass.
...it takes me an hour to braid my hair before bed (i cannot stand sleeping with any strands touching my face. you probably could have seen that one coming) because if there is even one lump, i need to unravel and do it again.
...all of the dictionaries in my classroom need to be facing the same way.
...when drinking anything with ice in it, i need to swirl the glass clockwise exactly seven times...you know, for perfect mixing purposes.
...i cannot say "goodbye" first...to the point that a phone conversation will go something like this: "so, call me when you have time." "okay, i'll do that." "great." "i guess i'll talk to you then." "okay." "great." "yeah." "talk to you later." "sure, great!" "good." "okay." "okay." "i'll call you." "okay." "good." ...infinitely. no wonder nobody calls me more than once.
the latest, however, has to do with the cats, ah, the cats. my two, gorgeous, mini-space heaters, my ambient-noise-purr-providers, so much do i love thee. both breeds were listed as "domestic short hair" when i rescued them individually from the shelter. boy, did i get duped. i think "domestic long hair", or even "domestic rapunzel-envy" might be more suitable, if only because "pre-kid's breath dandelion fluff" doesn't qualify as a breed. no kidding. my new daily ritual consists of waking up, closing my eyes and fishing for the pieces of fur strangling them like so much itchy fiberglass, opening, closing and fishing, opening, closing and fishing, then surrendering. i flip on the lights in the bathroom (which take HOURS to fully illuminate while my pitiful peepers writhe in agony, the feline fibres digging deeper and deeper...goddamned energy efficient bulbs!) and spend an hour with magnifying mirror clutched in one hand, tweezers of doom and COMPLETE inaccuracy in the other. i try to fool myself that the one or two strands of fur i liberate from my eyes are it. i know better. it all usually ends in complete surrender, my pudgy little fists desperately massaging each closed eye...exactly what you are told NOT to do when something gets in your eye. hey, to quote a famous song, "it's my party and i'll cry if i want to."
i love my cats, though...they are worth the daily peek into my own dementia.
I count everything: how many seconds to fill my glass, how many seconds for the tap water to flow hot, how long for my work computer to boot in the morning, sometimes how long I sit on the toilet (if I find myself to be a particularly boring self-conversationalist that day). It's not compulsive, it's just something I do. The skin-picking...THAT'S compulsive. :)
ReplyDeleteAnd pray you never find yourself with your cats in a house with wood floors. There's nothing more depressing than walking through a room with little loose puffs of hair swirling around the floor in your wake. Which reminds me I need to vacuum today.
No wonder it is hard to get off the phone with you. I cannot say goodby first either! Ah! But I can't complain because it is not like I do not like being on the phone with you anyway...
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