Tuesday, May 10, 2005

There is nothing to fear but fear itself. And cremation.

I'm tired of having OCD. Some days I can live with it and other days I think I'd like to try a more manageable disorder. Maybe something like anorexia. I could be mentally ill and fabulously thin at the same time.

Who am I kidding? I don't have that kind of dedication.

Tomorrow I have to drive...all alone and without benefit of Mr. Man I might add, to a big scary hospital two and a half hours away. And when I get there, I will be rewarded for my efforts by getting to spend some quality time alone with Dr. I'm Not From Around Here.

I'm not loving it. Especially since watching Medium last night about the possessed doctors that chop up patients when no one is looking.

The thing is, I have obsessed like mad tonight about the entire trip, the visit with the doctor and whether Mr. Man will remember to take my rings off before they cremate me.

I get right to the point with my obsessing. No sense in beating around the bush.

I have done absolutely everything I can think of to do to get my mind off this giant OCD fit I am having and nothing is working. Years ago I would have simply eaten a Trazedone flavored ice cream cone, but not now. Now I choose to suffer the madness without benefit of horse tranquilizer.

What a girl.

So I figure if I can't beat it, maybe we can laugh at it. Chopin is blasting on the stereo, my son is at his Dad's and my dog is covering his ears with his paws to try to drown out my choice of music. I'm all set to spill my guts and dress the demons in lamp shades so they look funny.

First of all, I am obsessing that I will have a flat tire. And with an obsessive-compulsive, it's never just a flat tire. It's a flat tire in the middle of nowhere, with no cell phone bars and the Bates Motel across the street.

But wait! There's more!

Not only is it a flat tire in the middle of nowhere with no cell and Norman peeking at me through the curtains in his mother's wig, it's what caused the freakin' flat tire in the first place.

I didn't touch the oven knobs seven times.

Ok. That's a lie. I did touch them seven times, but it didn't feel right so I had to do it again. And you know what? I didn't want to do it again so I threw caution to the wind and refused to do it.

One small step for me, one giant leap for a flat tire and my future as Norm's blonde from a bottle slave. (I'm not wearing the old lady's wig, I don't care what he says.)

I should have touched the knobs and called it a day.

If I actually make it alive to the hospital, I have to worry about what happens next. The last time I saw Dr. I'm Not From Around Here, he repeatedly stuck a needle the size of a tree limb in my throat without benefit of numbing agents or a bullet and a bottle of whiskey.

He made me cry. I don't like mean men that make me cry. Especially when I'm not wearing water proof mascara. I left his office looking like I'd been out all night doing mind altering drugs and sailors on shore leave with an ugly bandaid on my neck to boot.

And it wasn't even a Rug Rats bandaid.

So I'm thinking that this spectacular enlarged thyroid will freak him out tomorrow. Even though he does this for a living, I'm fully expecting him to pass right out when he sees how much it's grown.

Only when he comes to after the nurse puts cold clothes on his head will he tell me it must come out immediately.

"Oh no!" I'll say. "I can't possibly let your cut my throat open today. I have plans. I have to feed my dog. I think I left my fire batons on. I'm late for an intimate supper with Norm and his mom."

Logic would tell a normal person that doctors don't routinely throw you in the hospital and slit your throat without first sending you home for weeks to worry about it. I hear the logic, but the hiccups in my brain are louder.

Much louder.

And so I obsess. And on and on and on it goes until I am so frustrated and so tired of fighting the demons in funny hats that I give in and count all the slats in the blinds and turn the lights on and off twenty-one times.

Tanner the amazing four pound Yorkie thinks we live in a Chopin Disco.

Oh well. Better go and try to get some beauty sleep. (Can you hear the maniacal laughter?) If you never hear from me again, fear not.

I have either been set on fire with my rings on...because I so know Mr. Man will forget. Or, I have become Norman Bates' bitch.

Now look at me. I'm saying bad words. That one will cost me an extra seven times at the stove.

Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
This blog may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the express written permission of the author.

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