Alt Text: Photograph of four colorful lampshades on a black background, all askew.

Alt Text: Photograph of four colorful lampshades on a black background, all askew.

Me, trying to explain my not-so-bad-all-things-considered* OCD to my loving husband after I burst into tears tonight over a lampshade:

It’s not that I actually care about whether the lampshades are straight. I don’t even like that lamp. That’s a hideous lamp. In fact, if that lamp were to disappear I would be happy. Why do we even HAVE that lamp? It looks like some mother-of-pearl barfed all over a broken slinky. And then the lampshade is even worse.

So right now it feels like the entire world is flipping upside-down. You know how [terrible thing, terrible thing, and not-so-terrible thing but it’s really big and out of control and also happening right now] are all happening at once? I can’t control any of that. So I straighten the lampshades. I can control the lampshades.

Does that make sense?

Husband: It’s not about the lampshades.

Me: Or the pantry light being left on, or you not wiping down the kitchen counters, or the back door being left open, or any of that. None of that matters. I know that.

Okay. HALF of me knows that.

The rest of me is freaking the fuck out and wants to hide under the covers.

Husband: [Squeezes my hand.] Well, it IS a national holiday.

[Closes the bedroom door behind him and takes the kids out for the afternoon.]

*I always say this. “I have OCD. It’s not that bad.” What is “bad”? Like, if you aren’t Adrian Monk it’s not bad? HAHAHA. Good bye.

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