I have OCD. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. I do things that ordinary people don't do. For example, when at home, although we have four bathrooms in our house, when I need to go potty, I always use mine. The one next to my bedroom. Not the closest one, mine. Towels are only used once (this drives my sister crazy--I think she's reported me to the environmental police). Also, things in our house have to be kept in their place, or I become very upset. I never claimed to be normal.
One OCD can pick another one out of the crowd at fifty paces. I love Myra, but I have always known that she shares my disease. If ever there was any doubt, it would have been removed this morning when she stopped dancing in the middle of Wendy's class to match up the hand weights.
At Jazzercise of Taylors, there are two racks of handweights, one on each side of the stage. There are only a few sets of 3 lb weights, because most people use at least 4's. This morning, there were 3 3-lb weights on one side of the stage and 1 3-lb weight on the other side. Myra stopped in mid-shimmy to repair this rift in the fabric of the universe. I so understand...
Wendy's just back from vacation where she claims to have over-indulged, a sin for which we are all paying. She hurt me this morning. Lord, save me from Jazzercise instructors trying to burn off vacation eating. Or those getting ready to go on vacation or get married...you get the picture. I guess it worked out though, since I have way more to work off than she does. There are desserts from 1987 riding around on my hips.
My dream is to someday be to the point where I can only worry about working off what I ate last week. Peace, out...
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