The Obsessive Compulsive

Is a person with an obsessive compulsive personality born with it or can it just happen?  I never really thought about the answer to that question as I laughed my way through every episode of Monk, the story of an obsessive compulsive private detective.  Monk is never far from a hand wipe.  Luckily he always has an assistant ready to hand him one after each door opened, each hand shaken.   Recently however a state of enlightened consciousness obtained while sitting on the holiest of holy thrones has provided an answer.  There is not much to do in the moments while you wait for nature to take its course.  Some read, some hum.   I tend to just speculate on who else is in my throne room by the shoes that they wear.  Of course all the while I keep my own shoes well within the boundaries of my stall to avoid any Larry Craig incident.

When a toilet flushes you hear them rise to their feet.  They slide the lock to the stall and venture out into the bathroom.  At this point a decision is made.  Many partake in luxuriously foamy soap dispensed near the sink.  Incidentally, this soap replaced a much more common one in the Strom Thurmond Federal Building shortly after the election of Barack Obama.  I am quick to remind my Republican colleagues that it is a visible example that change is underway.  The soap is followed by a good wash and dry with a paper towel.  That said, an alarming number simply bolt for the door.  Oh my God, the scent of their dump must still be fresh on their fingers!

The next clue comes in the time before I hear a second door open and close.  If it takes a awhile they work for Transportation down the hall. If another door opens quickly, they work with me.  The thought consumes me.  It is like having a spy in your midst yet never knowing who they are.   Strangely I felt sympathetic with the East German secret police.  The threats are everywhere screaming out at me.  A door handle, a phone, the copy machine or a piece of paper.   The only clue I have to the existence of the invisible perpetrator is the quite fallible memory of a shoe.  The most dreadful moment of all is when I never caught a glimpse. 

I never thought I had an obsessive compulsive streak but since this great enlightenment I find myself scrubbing my fingers, opening bathroom doors with towels and when completely unavoidable, using a shirt sleeve to turn a door knob.  Mother used to always say when I spotted something interesting on the ground, "don't pick that up, do you know where it has been?"  I am not sure what the moral of this story is aside from wash your hands and think twice the next time that bathroom stall door closes.