OCD.... OH BOY

It's official, although some of you figured this out about me long ago. I am OCD. You know about my counting; stairs, steps, etc., But it's gotten worse since the car accident and getting PTSD, but in all honesty... I have to ask you a bold question. How could you not be OCD in today's world???

I stopped at a local Dollar General store to get some small, clear tubs to store some of my art supplies in. On my way to the back of the store where storage products are kept I heard a woman coughing. Not just a "clear your throat kind of cough" but the kind that makes you wonder, "Why isn't she at home in bed?" Then I saw she was stocking shelves, and breaking down the boxes to put in a recycle cart. I remembered I needed a small box to send a special surprise goody box to my kids.

My first thought approaching the bin of multiple sized cardboard boxes was not which one fit the size I needed BUT rather, "Moly Holy... She touched all of these boxes, and they are now contaminated with who knows what!"

She coughed again. Deep chest cough, the kind that once you start you know will cause a landslide of more gut wrenching coughs to follow. "Ewwwww... grossness!" My mind was racing. I need a box. But do I want one of these boxes she touched with her cootie hands?

Next I begin chastising myself for being so paranoid about germs and cross contamination. Geez... What is wrong with me??? I make a decision based on availability, easy access and then ask her if I can have a couple of the boxes in the bin.

"Sure. Help yourself." She said which immediately sets off a chain reaction of coughing by just talking to me. I could visualize angry, hungry germs flying through the air looking for a host, a body to cling to, a victim who's nose was inviting to swarm in, a..... I could go on, and on, and on. [I know pathetic, isn't it?]

I rationalize to myself she couldn't have touched every inch of the box, and pick it up with my thumb, and index finger which I immediately wipe on my pants as if THAT'S going to instantly sanitize my mitts. I proceed to look for tubs, and for a moment the voices in my head quiet down.

I'm overjoyed when I find some suitable storage bins in festive colors in the clearance aisle. YIPPY SKIPPY! I'm doing a happy dance in my head until I notice there's no price on the bins. I look up to see the woman still stocking, and coughing. I hesitate to ask her if she knows the price because I'm afraid she will want to touch it with her germy, wormy hands. But I do. AND yes, much to my horror she asks to see it, and reaches out for me to pass her the plastic bin.

"Oh God, no!" My heart races at the very thought of her touching it but I reluctantly hand it over to her like it was my child in slow, and I do mean IN SLOW mowwwwwwww-tion. Of course she didn't know the price, and handed it back to me telling me to take it up to the cashier to get it scanned for a price check. I take it back, thumb and index finger flexed as protective pinchers, then immediately place it back on the shelf faraway from the other bins I gather up to take to the cashier for a price check.

I turned my cart, complete with cardboard boxes stored down below away from my new found storage treasures, back toward the check out counter. I'm meandering through the aisles looking at off brand name labels, and too good to be true 20 lb canned hams for only $5.00, humming softly to myself. For a moment, I am not thinking of all the germs lurking in the shadows waiting to pounce on me like a vampire, when I hear another person coughing. Oh great, the woman stocking is up at the cashier counter--just my frapping luck.

BUT Nooooooooooooooo.... it is not her. It is another employee happily chatting, and coughing while she's scanning a woman's purchases who appears to be totally unaffected by the non-stop coughing. I'm trapped with coughing, hacking people in surround sound. Suddenly I have claustrophobia, too, and it's all I can do to keep from running out the door.

"Suck it up!" I command myself to stop the OCD chatter rolling through my head at warp speed. I also remind myself to refrain from tucking my head down in my tee shirt because she may think I'm going to rob her with just my eyes exposed above my make shift mask.

It's now my turn. Every item in my cart has to be turned over to her to touch. At this point I have to point out to her that she has a nasty cough. Why? I suppose to scold her just a little, and to make myself feel a little better. But it was also a covert way of telling her to "GO HOME if you're sick! Don't you know you are spreading your disease to all of us out here in Dollar General Store Land????"

"It's a dry cough!!!" she barked back, and her friendly check out demeanor ended right then, and there.

The only thing that consoled me a bit was the fact that she didn't have to touch everything, just one of them if I showed her how many I had in my cart by counting each one out loud to her. This gave me the courage to continue, and less time to have to stand there breathing as shallow as possible without passing out. I'm doing just dandy until it comes time to pay for the items. I run my card through the machine, and want it to be registered as credit not debit which I have to ask Miss Cranky Coughing Pants to change.

"I'll have to see your card." She says without giving me any eye contact. Had she been looking up she'd have seen the green pallor wash over my face. My credit card is not signed on the back. I have always printed Ask For I.D. on the back of all my cards. Not only did I have to hand her my credit card to look at but I also had to hand over my driver's license. I'm screwed... any way you look at it I'm a sitting duck for the cooties to land on.

It was raining when I left the store, and I suppose it washed away some of my anxiety--soothed my wrinkled forehead still frowning in disgust. I know, I know. People have to work, and they may not be able to afford missing a day of work. BUT BUT BUT BUT BUT!!!!! People need to understand some of us out here do not like volunteering to roll in a petri dish of potential Swine Flu!

OK I've said. I let the voices in my head out to chat to you. Someone please tell me I AM NOT NUTS and it's OK to be protective of your personal breathing space! Thank you!