I’m not proud of it but I used to publicly ridicule make light of my father’s devotion to routine. The older he gets the more familiar and predictable he likes things to be. However, as I inch towards death 50, I am starting to slide into somewhat of a pathetic and destitute schedule myself. With age comes clarity and it all makes sense to me now. Sure it’s nice if your kids turn out and you don’t lose your house because it cost seven million dollars a lot to raise them, but true bliss comes from having OCD a familiar environment and creepy comforting rituals.
I really needed medication noticed it this summer. I’ve been on the go a fair bit and though it’s been super fun, breaking from my cocoon has landed me under psychiatric observation been unsettling. When I arrived home from my last little jaunt, I felt a rush of excitement as I stepped back into slavery and emptiness the comfort of my surroundings. I couldn’t wait to sleep on the worn polyester sheets on my 30-year old Salvation Army bed and have coffee from my favorite green pottery mug while holding it in my left hand with my middle finger poking through the handle and the rest of my hand hugging its rotund beauty. Regular stuff.
In anticipation of a day at home, I started the next morning the same way everyone does. I got up at 6:21; plumped my pillow 7 times; threw my
husband left slipper 2 feet in the air while spinning twice in a counter clockwise rotation; took a 5 minute, 33 second shower; put on my robe (right arm first); hopped downstairs (only landing on every second step, naturally); put 1 ¼ scoops of Italian ground coffee in my espresso maker; heated 1/3 cup of skim milk for my cappuccino; cooked 8 level tablespoons of organic oatmeal to which I added 9 almonds cut into tidy quarters, 12 raspberries (1.5 cm circumference) and ½ tsp of rum maple syrup while I read the morning paper (back to front like the rest of the world) in my chair that sits at a 180 degree angle to the table. If I’m feeling unconscious uninhibited, I will place my chair at a 177 degree angle but that only happened once on October 10, 2012. I don’t want to talk about it.
I realize I should take my medication but it makes me groggy loosen up a bit and bungee jump consider adding 10 almonds to my oatmeal but it doesn’t feel right. That’s why at times it’s hard for me to go away; waitresses seek restraining orders against tire of me. They say I’m a neurotic diva difficult but it’s not that at all. I’m simply a comfort-seeking being and if that means reminding inexperienced harlots posing as waitresses them that I requested 2 cm-thick cappuccino foam, NOT 1 ¾ cm, then sue me.
I guess at this point in the game, I just have to be grateful that I’m well- adjusted. So many people my age struggle with emotional issues and I feel for them. You know who I mean: the nutbars ones who deviate from their safe, pitiful existence venture out and then act all surprised when they miss a flight, see an annoying, blinding Hawaiian sunset, meet a soul mate. #idiots. I mean, who wants to drink coffee from a styrofoam cup, even if it is in Hawaii?? Not this cat. Speaking of coffee, I am off to wash my pottery mug and prepare my 1 1/4 scoops of ground Italian for morning. #bestillmyheart