I’m waiting for my flight to Reykjavik, where I’ll connect to London, where I’ll stay for three days before returning to Iceland for a week. (Nothing’s ever simple with me.) I’m pretty excited. No, really excited. Really, really excited. You get the point.
Anxious, too, for obvious reasons. Most of my seizures have been partials lately, and they’ve been fewer and fewer far between, so besides fear of embarrassment (lip smacking is the new cool, right?), I’m not very worried on that front. I can’t help but be a little concerned though. I’m not always the best judge of what’s “normal,” but I assume that this particular anxiety is warranted.
Some of the other things I’ve been thinking (read: obsessing) about are, however, arguably less rational.
Case in point: my passport.
I hesitate to continue lest I shock the Internet, but I’ll proceed in the interest of general awareness and with the hope that in doing so, I might make another person with OCD out there feel a bit better about their OCD behavior(s), which probably aren’t weirder than mine are.
I hate touching my passport. I dread touching it. I avoid touching it, and when I have to hand it over to the airline employee at the check-in desk/to a gate agent/to a customs officer, I pray that they’ve thoroughly washed (and preferably sanitized) their hands. I’m inevitably nauseated until it’s safely ensconced in its extra-protective passport holder and Ziploc bag again. One can never be too careful, you know.
My husband has reminded me at least thirty times that a passport is a working document that’s meant to be used. This, he tells me, means that I should handle it without grimacing and stop inspecting it for imperfections that are imperceptible to most human eyes. (I’ve developed a method that involves minimal finger-passport contact. It’s quite innovative, really.)
Not gonna happen. I wish I could get a passport chip or something implanted in me in order to avoid this horribleness. Not really. Well, kind of. Yes. Bring on the microchip.
Anyway, England! Iceland! Expect obnoxiously frequent updates.
(Please note that I’m writing this from my phone. All typos/grammatical errors/inelegant prose/weird formatting are the fault of my iPhone 6, which, incidentally, I’m now doing a much better job of touching. I’ll take that as a win.)