I must admit, there are moments when I find myself feeling a touch sorry for my situation with obsessive-compulsive disorder. Sometimes, I catch myself wishing for something less intrusive and more easily managed—like, say, an annoying hangnail or a crooked toe. But then I think about the simple solutions to those issues, and I find a spark of gratitude for my OCD. It’s a challenge, but I still manage to lead a fulfilling life. And hey, at least I don’t need orthotics!
As I write this, I’m soaking in the atmosphere by the hotel pool on the first day of my five-day getaway. The place is stunning—an expansive infinity pool with fountains cascading all around. A staff member is circulating, offering ice-cold water infused with fresh strawberries and warm towels. I’m alternating between diving into a compelling book and tackling an intricate word puzzle. It truly feels like paradise — almost.
Except for the child whose shrill voice keeps cutting through my bliss: “Help! Mom, Dad, look at me! Help!” Clearly, he hasn’t grasped the lesson from The Boy Who Cried Wolf. I shoot him a glare, trying to express my irritation. And that’s when I spot it: the mother of all boogers he’s triumphantly extracting from his nose. He holds it up like a trophy, and I silently wish he would just eat it. No such luck; he flicks it into the water. The very same water my partner is inviting me to join him in.
Determined to avoid any potential childhood germs from the Screamer, I decide to enter the pool from the opposite side. I perform a frantic jig around the scorching hot deck and swim to my husband from behind. He turns, puzzled.
“Why didn’t you just come in at the steps?” he asks.
“Oh, I just wanted to sneak up on you. I was being stealthy,” I reply.
“Well, you should’ve skipped the hot coal dance. Everyone was watching you,” he chuckles.
He wraps his arms around me, and for a moment, I savor the intimacy—we rarely get time alone in a pool. But soon, I’m scanning for The Booger. Could it have drifted to this side? Is there a current in the pool?
“Did you hear me?” he asks.
“No,” I confess. “I was… distracted.”
“By the baby?”
No, by my desperate need for a Hazmat suit.
“What baby?” My eyes dart around, seeking a distraction from the horrifying image of a giant blob of snot.
“Over there,” he gestures, pointing to a toddler on the steps, his diaper sagging perilously low. I raise my head higher on his shoulder, trying to keep my hair from falling out of place. Clenching my Kegel muscles against the impending threat of potential germs, I search for an exit strategy.
“Can we get out?” I plead.
“Already? It’s lovely here.”
“I know, but I’m burning. I really should get out of the sun.” (And away from this germ pool.)
Reluctantly, my husband releases me. After 25 years, he understands that reasoning with me about my OCD doesn’t work. My mind is wired to obsess over germs and health concerns. Though therapy and medication have helped reduce my compulsions, the thought of swimming in a mix of boogers and feces is too much for my anxiety to bear. No amount of hand sanitizer will fix this; I need a full-on decontamination.
I close my eyes and splash toward the stairs near the diaper disaster. As soon as I’m out, I rush upstairs to shower in the hottest water I can tolerate and shampoo my hair twice. After washing my swimsuit with Woolite and hanging it out to dry, an overwhelming wave of fatigue hits me. I need a nap.
I strip the bed of its comforter and decorative pillows (because who knows when they were last washed?) and inspect the sheets for any signs of contamination. If only I had one of those Luminol lights that crime scene investigators use! I wonder if they’re available on Amazon. Sitting on the bed with my laptop, I suddenly notice the slight curling of my second and third toes…