Fifty Feet

I am a bit OCD. I have a cat named Esmerelda, or at least I think I do...

Thursday, June 30, 2005


I am still trying to cope with the reality of the fact that there was no cat. Each day passes and I realize that I am indeed a little crazy. I sit in the morning in my lavender robe eating my honey bunches of oats, drinking my coffee, and staring out the window. When I am done I wash my cereal bowl no less than 86 times. I then wash the spoon 43 times or more. I wear gloves because I wash my hands so much that if I didn't wear gloves while washing the dishes I would have seriously dried out hands. Or, I would have dried out hands if I didn't use lotion on them for two complete hours after washing my hands 150 times.

Even now just thinking about washing my hands is almost erotic. I can feel the warm water, the lemon scented soap, the way the water sounds when it splashes into the sink. It really is disgusting when I think about it.

My husband ignores me most of the time when I am in a real OCD fit. He just lets me count all of the dishes in the cabinets over and over. Each day I count 22 plates, 46 cups, 24 bowls, 57 pieces of tupperware, 24 saucers, 3 tea pitchers, and 50 tupperware lids.

Sometimes I sit in a room and I count for no reason at all. Sometime I count the number of hairs on my arm, or the number of wrinkles on the back of my hand.

Why do I do this? Is it to keep my mind occupied? Is there something lurking in my past that is so horrific that I count in order to keep from dealing with it?

I don't know, but right now I find solace in the consistency and reliability of numbers.


At 9:09 AM, Blogger jes said...

do you realize that you left the number 8 out of the numbered list above?

you see, 50 feet, i am anal enough to read each number to make sure none were missed.


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