Agnes Nutter – Neuroticism

What does one write about on a blog?  Well, you could always start with what you’re good at.   “What the hell am I good at,” I asked myself (as the anxiety started to climb and the sweat started to pool in a very unfeminine way)?  Motherhood?  Not unless saying things like “If you leave your backpack there one more time I’m going to pick it up and hit you with it” qualifies me for Mother of the Year.  Marriage?  The going quote at our house is “We’ve been through so much together…and I blame you.”  So….not going to teach classes on how to create a harmonious home anytime soon.  After digging really deep, I discovered, much to my chagrin, that the thing I’m exceptionally good at is neuroticism.  I rock neurotic like nobody’s business.  Seriously.  I can truly say, without danger of hyperbole, that I’m the most neurotic person I know.  I prefer to call it endearingly colorful, but whatever.  You say “potato” and I say “not in my kitchen…they’re too damn messy.”  Believe it or not, I was blissfully unaware of the fact that my mind is a fun house on heroine for many years.  I found that, after most things I said or did, I had to say to the incredulous on-lookers, “What?  Normal people do that, right?”  I can imagine that it’s probably fairly uncomfortable to try and tell someone that they’re one quirk short of a full blown condition (a phrase that’s been thrown my way, believe it or not, more than once in my lifetime).  So I thought I’d perform a much needed public service by putting together a list of the top five ways you know you’re not quite right upstairs.  Here it goes:

1)      Your toddler knows what the phrase “We don’t touch reflective surfaces” means.
2)      Your closet is organized into classes of seasons and then into subclasses of size, style, fit and color.
3)      Anyone has ever tried to casually slip you the name and number of their therapist.
4)      People are only welcome in your home if they’re okay with you following them around with a big ass bottle of disinfectant….and a mop.
5)      Your pulse starts to race and you get butterflies when Lysol goes on sale.

If you answered yes to any of the above, well…shit.  You might want to find that therapist’s number.

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