I have a problem.
It’s not a huge problem. Nothing like smoking, or a personal crack habbit, or a serious liking of New Kids on the Block or something horrible like that which will almost certainly lead to an intimate knowledge of every rehab facility down the eastern seaboard. Nothing like that I assure you. What I suffer from is a ridiculous form of OCD (or, according to my colleague KZ “CDO, because if you have OCD it has to be alphabetized) that requires me to be bothered if a light is off and the switch is in the up position.
You know the kind of lights I’m talking about. There’s two switches and you can turn them on/off from wherever. Drive. Me. Nuts.
We have three of them in our apartment. The kitchen, the hallway, and Treva’s pride and joy, her walk-in closet. The kitchen and hallway lights are easy enough to avoid. I put enough crap near them to make reaching the secondary switch annoying at best.
It absolutely drives me batty when the switches aren’t all down. I have been known to walk out of my way just to set them to the “right” position.
last night I took some dry cleaning out of her closet and hit the switch closest to me. I had to flip it up. Ug! Treva was in the other door (I should clarify, her walk-in closet connects our bedroom to the master bathroom) so I didn’t fix it at the moment. I walked into the living room and out of the corner of my semi functional eye saw the light come on. I thought to myself “oops, guess she wasn’t done in there” and went on my merry way to spend quality time with my friend Dryel.
Fast forward to this morning when I hear, “You’ve made me inherrit your OCD.”
Her: Last night I had to fix the lightswitch. You have rubbed off on me.
It’s a disease folks. I’m telling ya.