Superman fights Lex Luther. Batman fights Joker. Spiderman fights the Green Goblin. Superheroes are in constant battle with their enemies who, while they never triumph, never completely disappear either. Well, move over, boys, because there’s a new super hero in town. Meet Clean Irene, or as she is known to her family, OCD Woman.
Like my male counterparts, I have been fighting a monster who has tried for years to invade and overtake my home; banging on the doors, climbing through the windows, creeping in the cracks. Ever on guard, I fend it off; beat it back -- sometimes with weapons and sometimes with pure, determined, brute strength. This monster, this thing that threatens my sanity, my peace, is a shape–shifter. One day it is a sink full of dirty dishes, another it is dust, and another it is a trail of socks and cast off shoes. In other words, it is the detritus of the people with whom I live. People who, although endearing and skilled in many areas, have not mastered my sense of organization or the skills for keeping that order… in order. Were it not for my vigilance, this monster might just huff and puff and blow the house down, forcing my three little pigs to go wee wee wee all the way to oblivion.
I don’t live in stark, white minimalism. Not even close. I like old things. Lots of wood, comfy stuffed furniture, soft lighting. But my sense of aesthetics also includes tidiness. My home is my sanctuary, my refuge. It is the place from which I go out into the world to do my work. And it is the place to which I return to rest and recharge. I don’t mind putting in the time to make it so and it can actually relax me to rearrange, reorder, decorate and do the things that make a house a home. It fills a need. It feathers my nest. It’s creative and nurturing to my soul and, I believe, to my family.
When the kids were young I’d spend a day cleaning out their tiny, shared room; folding clothes, sorting toys, changing the sheets, dusting and storing all of their things so they had room to play. That night, as I’d tuck them in, it seemed that they felt the difference, too. They were calm and dreaming before I left the room. Maybe it was my imagination but it felt to me that the energy in their room was different. Light, peaceful, restful.
Now that they’re older, they tease me about my peculiar (to them) tendencies. Sadly, they did not inherit my powers, taking after their father when it comes to matters of tidiness and order. They will never understand my mission and I have long since stopped trying to ferret out even a glimmer of a latent clean gene.
On one recent warm, summery evening, everyone was home for dinner and we were assembling shish kebobs for the grill. I was organizing the tomatoes in neat little rows for easier assemblage – right next to the zucchini and the peppers -- when one of the kids asked, “What are you doing?” Before I could answer (as if it needed explanation…duh), my husband said, “She is arranging the tomatoes to spell O-C-D.”
Ha Ha. Very funny. But ridiculous. First of all because I wasn’t. And second of all because there weren’t enough tomatoes to spell that – at least not in evenly-sized letters. And they would have rolled all over the place if I had tried. Honestly...
I know they want this. They want a tidy home, a clear canvas on which to paint the business of their lives. So why do they leave pillows askew on the couch after reading their book or napping? How hard is it to fluff them up and put them back in their symmetrical corners? And what is the deal with crumbs on the counter and wet, un-wrung sponges in the sink? Can someone explain that to me? No? I didn’t think so. Do they not notice the mugs and glasses left in bedrooms or on the coffee table? Are they blind to the stuff piled on the stairs to be brought up and put away? Is it so very difficult to grab a bottle of cleaner and scrub the stovetop or the windows until they have that satisfying gleam?
To be fair, there are those who survive, even thrive in the midst of chaos. The workshop of Alexander Calder, famous artist of mobiles and metal sculptures, was so cluttered that it was impossible to wade through. But ask him for a phone number and he would climb across, move a few things, reach under a pile and pull out the piece of paper with the phone number on it. Then there’s my husband. His garage/workshop was so jam-packed that we could barely open the door. We called it the “Shed of Truth,” and only Dan knew the truth of what was in there. But somehow it worked for him, and when I tidied his office or a section of the Shed, he was lost.
People’s minds work differently, I realize. But how can anyone deny the thrill of fresh vacuum tracks in a rug and the smell of furniture polish on the wood? Who doesn’t delight in clean, dust-free surfaces, crisply made beds and glistening bathrooms? Are these things not intoxicating? Of course they are! Admit it!
I’m not crazy. I’m not. I know this because I have met others like me. We understand and support each other and pity those who are as yet unenlightened and lack the powers to fight the beast. And we know it’s up to us to fight.
So the battle wages on. OCD Woman will never give up. Never, I tell you!
O- for Organized;
C- for Clean; and
D- for Don’t even think about leaving that wet towel on the floor.
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