There is an incessant nagging inside that prevents me from having full closure with a space until all order is restored. The ‘order’ of which needs to be restored might not make a whole lot of sense to you, so I’ll spin my best wizardry to give you a glimmer of understanding into this crazy head.
‘Order’ can be broken down by triggers. If the gun is cocked and the trigger goes off, BANG, disorder. However, if the gun has the safety mode on the trigger cannot go off, unexpectedly, so this requires a great deal of precautionary measures.
Now, relate everything I just said to OCD and reread it again…I’ll wait….
Fine, I’ll help you.
Triggers, like a bi-level closet that is organized with shirts on the top rod and jeans/pants/’anything you wear on the bottom half of your body’ on the bottom rod. A shirt on the bottom would cause the trigger to go off. I would notice the white hanger on the bottom among all the green hangers and trigger two would go off. What is a wire hanger doing in this walk-in closet? Oh god, this goes in the coat closet in the bedroom. Open the bedroom coat closet and the coats are not in length order (longest to shortest). Jesus, how can I relax until it is, orderly? Great, now that the tall coats are in the back and the shorter ones in front I can see the floor. Holy hell, why is the cord to the iron – which rests on the floor and should be on a shelf (note: container store) – not wrapped around it? Oh you know why? Because my wife didn’t wrap the cord around it.
“I hate when you yell from upstairs when I’m downstairs.” She yells back.
“I hate when you do this,” I yell. “Can’t you make sure the cord is securely wrapped around the iron before putting it back.”
She mumbles something I cannot hear.
So I proceed to wrap the cord, securely, around the iron and push it back in its place against the back of the wall. Seriously? How does dog hair get in the closet. I look on the sunlit floor and anxiety shoots me in the gut at the floor that is covered in dog hair. Didn’t I just sweep and mop yesterday? For the love of God my pets hate me. Why do they do this to me? Not only am I already allergic to them, but I feel like a dirty dog with hair everywhere. Crap, I didn’t wear slippers and my socks look like cousin IT. Hyperventilate.
Stella, my cat enters the room purring.
“Awww,” I tell her. “Come here pretty girl.”
She comes over, rubs against me, and then bites my hand when I pet her. Whatever, she’s a bitch. I have to Swiffer, but first I have to take off these dirty socks.
She likes to get fake flowers from my decorative flower arrangement in the bedroom and the only way she likes to do it is by making it plummet to the ground. Oh my god, breathe, hair might get into the fake flowers.
My wife enters and helps, she picks up the flower arrangement. That’s so nice of her. She tells me about her day, but I can’t focus because the flower stems are not pointed toward the bed. She obviously asks me something, but I have no clue. Oh no, the design of the vase isn’t facing the door of the bedroom. I’m going to have a nervous breakdown, so I rush over to stop the white noise of my head. Whew!
“Now what did you say?” I ask.
She sighs, “You never listen.”
I think I’m listening TOO hard, but unfortunately it’s at gun shots all around me. She goes downstairs to dilly-dally, and I change socks then go downstairs to get the Swiffer and I swiffer so hard it may very well crack the floor. Whew, some semblance of order in the bedroom. I exit the room, close the door, and add “container store: closet shelf” to my to-do list.
God this room stinks. I think it stinks.
“I hate when you do that.”
I yell, “Do you think our bedroom stinks?”
What does she know? I have the super power of smell and I think it stinks. (Note: room fragrance isn’t cutting it so do research for a constant way to keep a fragrance flowing through room). I reopen the door, confirm, and shut it with resolve and add “Bedroom scent” to my to-do list.
Not including the walk-in closet, which I can’t discuss at the moment for fear of triggers that would cause me to literally take a half-day and go home and organize it, I have 3 rooms and a bathroom upstairs. Not including the basement, first-level, yard, and garage (which is so clean it sparkles). You do the math on how long you think it takes for me to actually get closure in a space.
I’ve learned a trick so that I can write. I keep my office spic-n-span and neurotically aligned with my symmetrical and often times insane expectations of positioning. The trick is I shut my door and breathe in heaven.
I hear a loud crash and rush out. The bedroom door is cracked so it must not have been shut very well, and there is Stella in the flower arrangement.
She snickers, “You pointless worrier, it’s easier to teach a dog new tricks. I do this every single time and your attempts to close the door, while clever, do not prevent me from getting in, eventually. I will fuck with you for the rest of your life or until you get rid of this arrangement. Crazy little human, I don’t really like playing with the flowers I just like playing with you. PURRRR.”
Okay, I made the last part up but I swear that is probably what she would say. No, I don’t think animals talk (to us).