Long ago, during my "I know everything," newly married 20s, I embarked on a road trip with my siblings and our mother.
Having started my own family, it seemed a good time to sit back and observe the behaviors of these complex characters from my childhood, much like rats in a maze. I watched their frantic maneuvering for days and eavesdropped on terse exchanges when tense moments arose. At the end of our journey, I shared my insights with them, knowing they would want to hear my conclusions.
I told them that while they all seemed to be under the impression that every other family member suffered from obsessive-compulsive disorder and control issues, my examination revealed that they were all diagnosable. But the really hilarious part? Each person seemed convinced that the other's compulsions were completely ridiculous while their own made perfect sense.
For a good portion of my life, I avoided this trap of anal-retentiveness. In my teens, I dated a boy who carried a pack of tissues, Band-Aids and Neosporin in his back pocket. Always. As an adult, I became friends with a woman who changed her socks several times a day and had a fetish for comfy clothing. I spent much time with a brother who has the tidiest living space I have ever encountered and was witness to my sister's anti-germ, pre-party cleaning frenzies.
Through it all, I stayed true to my Oscar Madison nature. When my husband and I started dating, I owned one towel, one pillow, no blow-dryer, and my fridge held a pound of butter and a water jug. The outfit I put on in the morning stayed on my body until I changed into pajamas at bedtime, no matter what. I washed once in the morning and felt anything more would be frivolous. I thought the whole hand-washing craze would peter out, and I feared that the people who insisted on using hand sanitizer were wiping out any hope for natural immunity.
And then I had children. I had asthmatic, allergic children who had stomach issues. Initially, I maintained the stance that neither germ nor dust nor animal hair could have any bearing on their poor health. I stuck to my guns and made dogmatic statements about "strengthening their systems" and "not sanitizing their environment too much." I wiped their noses with paper towels and (when really desperate) with leaves or the hem of my T-shirt.
Finally (maybe thankfully), I could watch their suffering no longer, and my intricate system of denial came unglued; as did I. I became a fanatic about health information and cleaning solutions. I stalked the Web for anti-allergy tips until I could recite the recommendations in my sleep. I developed an addiction to rubbing alcohol and bleach and Dixie cups. I bought only Puffs tissues with that weird lotion formula. I was the enemy.
My tidy brother now laughs at how relaxed he has become in his older years. He gleefully reflects on his past worries and habits, calling himself silly. Thanks. Thanks a lot. I find that as I age, I have not only become the OCD poster child, I have picked up all the compulsions of the various people in my life. I am known far and wide for the ointment and bandage arsenal that occupies my purse. Strange children approach me with requests for bottled water and tourniquets, reporting that they were referred by current or former students of mine. I have a jumbo container of (you guessed it) hand sanitizer in my office, as well as its mini twin in my purse just in case a public bathroom runs out of soap. I come home at the end of the day and before I cross the threshold, I change my "work" socks for "home" socks, and my work clothes for jammies and slippers. I have become Mr. Rogers.
As I look back on my drastic metamorphosis and send hate mail to all the people who have infected me with their personal brand of this illness, I have two remaining questions about my future: Will there be sufficient room in my coffin for an eternity-sized bag of cough drops? And, does Heaven have a weight limit for carry-ons?
Mary White is from the Malone area. She and her husband have five children, eight cats, two dogs and three guinea pigs. She has had the privilege of working with children and families (her own and other people's) for more than 20 years.
