When I reflect on my obsessive-compulsive disorder, I occasionally feel a hint of self-pity. Why couldn’t I have something less intrusive and easily manageable, like a mild case of excessive ear wax or a hammertoe? But then I think about the process of getting rid of that ear wax, and oddly enough, I find myself appreciating my OCD. After all, it’s not the worst thing—I still manage a fairly normal life without the need for orthotics.
As I sit by the hotel pool on the first day of my five-day getaway, the setting is simply beautiful. The infinity pool stretches out before me, complete with fountains and refreshing ice water infused with strawberries. I am happily engrossed in a captivating novel and tackling a challenging word puzzle. It feels like paradise—until a child’s voice breaks through my bliss: “Help! Mom, Dad, look! Help! Look at me! Help!” Clearly, this little one has never read “The Boy Who Cried Wolf.” I shoot him a disapproving glare, and that’s when I notice it: a massive booger he’s triumphantly pulling from his nose. My silent prayer? “Please, eat it!” But no luck—he flicks it right into the pool, the very water my husband beckons me to join him in. I shudder at the thought of wading through that snot.
In a moment of quick thinking, I decide to enter the pool from the opposite side to avoid any potential childhood viruses this Screamer might be harboring. I do a frantic dance around the hot deck and swim to my husband from behind. He looks at me, surprised.
“Why didn’t you just get in at the stairs?” he asks.
“Oh, I just wanted to sneak up on you. I was being stealthy,” I reply.
“Well, you should have reconsidered the hot coal dance. Everyone was staring at you,” he chuckles as he wraps his arms around me.
At first, I genuinely enjoy the intimacy of the moment—it’s been ages since we’ve had a chance to be alone in a pool. But soon, my mind starts scanning the surface for that booger. Could it have drifted over to my side? Is there a current in here?
“Did you hear me?” my husband asks.
“No,” I admit. “I was distracted.”
“By the baby?” he probes.
No, by my overwhelming desire for a Hazmat suit. I glance around for a cute, chubby-cheeked baby to distract me from the horrifying blob of snot.
“There,” my husband points, “on the steps.”
I spot a toddler with a sagging diaper that looks like it’s about to burst. I instinctively lift my head higher on my husband’s shoulder, trying to keep my hair from touching anything. I brace myself against the invisible onslaught of germs, contemplating the safest exit from this germ-infested pool.
“Can we get out?” I plead.
“Already? But it’s so nice,” he replies.
“I know, but I’m burning. I should get out of the sun.” (And away from this Petri dish.)
My husband, well-versed in my “issues,” reluctantly lets me go. He knows reasoning with me is futile; OCD is not a rational condition. Even though I’ve managed to reduce my compulsions with therapy and medication, the thought of lounging in a pool filled with boogers and potential germs is more than my anxiety can bear. No amount of hand sanitizer is going to remedy this situation; I’m going to need a full-on decontamination.
I close my eyes and splash toward the stairs, eager to escape Poopy Pants. Once out of the pool, I dash upstairs, crank up the water to the hottest setting, and shampoo my hair twice. After washing my swimsuit with Woolite and hanging it to dry on the balcony, I suddenly feel drained. I need a nap.
I strip the bed of its comforter and decorative pillows (because let’s be honest, hotels rarely wash those) and inspect the sheets for any signs of contamination. I wish I had one of those Luminol lights like the ones they use on CSI! Do they sell those on Amazon? As I sit on the bed with my computer, I notice something peculiar: the slight curling of my second and third toes…
In navigating the complexities of my OCD, I’ve learned to manage my thoughts and fears, but it’s a daily challenge, even during what should be a relaxing vacation.
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