Maybe it’s the depression, threatening to capsize my little lifeboat as it roars and swells in angry waves.
Maybe it’s the stress, recently reaching near-record levels and jeopardizing the precarious state of my anxious mind.
Whatever the cause, the effects are cropping up in some rather unconventional ways.
You remember I told you about my odd need for physical even-ness? (If you’re just tuning in, please see #90 on my 140 Things About Me page. As if that weren’t idiosyncratic enough in and of itself, I’ve recently developed a few other peculiarities…
I am, apparently, physically incapable of taking the top cup off of a stack of disposable cups. Each workday morning, I arrive at the office and get a cup of coffee. I reach for a styrofoam cup, and…
I pick up at least four or five cups off the top of the stack, so that I can take a cup from the middle. I do this at fast-food joints and convenience stores, too. I think it stems from being neurotically worried about putting my mouth on a cup someone else has touched. Because I know that not everyone washes their hands as obsessively as I do. Which brings me to the next manifestation of my mental meltdown…
I am constantly aware of everything I touch, who might have touched it before me, and what germs I might be unknowingly acquiring. So I wash my hands eleventy thousand times a day, until they’re dry and chapped and raw. (But hey, I don’t use a new bar of soap for each hand-washing, like Jack Nicholson’s OCD character in As Good As It Gets. I’m not that bad … … yet.)
I think I had more to post about, but as I was perusing that IMDB link (that movie’s one of my favorites), I came across this quote:
Sell crazy someplace else, we’re all stocked up here.
And on that note, I think I’ll go curl up in the corner and cry.