I may have a few obsessive-compulsive traits.
My husband installed several three-way switches in our house. In theory, we could use the closest switch to turn a light on and off and avoid crossing dark rooms littered with our animals, all of whom are black.
But when all my lights are off, I need all the switches on one wall to be pointed in the same direction.
Yes, it is a need.
And, yes, I will use the farthest light switch to turn off a light and walk through a dark room just to keep all switches pointed in the same direction.
And, yes, I will lie in bed and silently seethe when my husband walks through the bedroom and actually uses the three-way switches for the correct purpose, leaving the little rectangles in all kinds of positions before sliding into bed oblivious to the fact that I hate, hate, hate him.
I also need my number of eggs to be even. Because you just cannot arrange a symmetrical pattern with an odd number of eggs.
You. Can. Not. Do. It.
So the other day, I needed three eggs for a recipe. And I was almost giddy because I remembered from my last use of the eggs that I had left an uneven number in the carton.
It was all lopsided and everything.
But then, as I was pulling the last egg out, I suddenly, for no apparent reason, became involved in some kind of juggling act.
And one single egg hit the floor with a tremendous splat, yolk and shell oozing across my wood floor.
“Are you okay, Mom?” Younger asked gently.
“We can clean it up.”
“Nooooooooooo.” I stared at the glob as my husband hurried to grab cleaning supplies. “But my eggs were going to be an even number.”
“Mom,” Younger said, his voice even more gentle. “Are you okay?”
No, I am not okay.
My light switches are pointed in whatever direction my husband felt was fit to leave them in and my eggs are in an asymmetrical pattern in their carton.
No, no, no.
I am not okay.
I. Am. Not. Okay.