One Obsession to Rule Them All

This post is brought to you by my dear Hubby, who suggested I share a weird and humbling moment with everyone.  So, yes, dear Rick and Darcy (not their real names) at church, you're about to learn something new about me...again.

Hubby is on vacation this week and spent the last couple days with his mother in a town across the state from home.  He does this from time to time, and it's no biggie. 

Normally I get up at 5, get Peaches out the door to work and then go back to bed for about an hour before I get up and theoretically go for a walk before I start work. Yesterday that routine was thrown out the window because Peaches was ill and didn't go to work, but didn't make that decision until 4:45. She sent me a text, which got me WIDE awake for some reason.  I could not fall back asleep.
So I rolled around, thinking, "I should just get up and go for a walk and get that out of the way and then go get working."

Well I didn't.  Instead, I rolled over and managed to fall back asleep until about 9 minutes before I had to be at my desk. That meant all the niceties of going for a walk, putting on make up, applying deodorant all went out the door.

The one thing that did not get missed, the one thing that DOES NOT GET MISSED...I made the bed.

Admittedly, not my best attempt at making the bed, but for those of you who are regular readers of this blog, you know that I cannot ABIDE an unmade bed.  It's one of those fun little things some would call an obsession...I call a quirk.

One of  my other quirks, for the purpose of this blog, is I hate, hate, hate it when Hubby and the kids don't return a text IMMEDIATELY.  Nothing throws me into a panic faster than sending a simple text like, "When will you be home for dinner?" and not getting an immediate answer. I begin to picture all sorts of horrors have befallen my beloved family members.

An unanswered text from me also results in many, many more texts from me.  

How on EARTH did my mother survive without cell phones?  She had no idea where I was half the time I was growing up.  But I knew if she blew that coaches' whistle out the back door and I wasn't in the house within ten minutes, life as I knew it would be over.  Still, all she knew was that I was ten minutes away. I could have fallen out of a tree and broken my neck.  I could have crashed my bike into a parked car.  (I actually did that, but that's another story) and gotten injured.  As far as I knew, she did not care what COULD happen to me. She just knew what WOULD happen to me if I didn't show up ten minutes after the whistle.

They must have made mothers different back then.  My kids are grown up and fully capable of getting from point A to point B without dying, and yet I'm panic mom if they don't answer a text immediately.  (And no, telling me they might be driving doesn't help.)

Anyway...

So yesterday I made the bed in a hurried manner and then went to the next room to work. Normally I keep my cell on the desk with me so that if any family member needs anything from me, I'm RIGHT THERE with an immediate response.
Much like a made bed, staying in contact with my immediate family is a quirk for me. Call it an obsession, go ahead.

Whatever.

So my day progressed, as Mondays do. Work was a little busy.  Peaches recovered from her illness enough to drag herself to class.  Skippy had a day off so I had no thought that I'd see him before 3 PM.  I moved around the house doing chores, I went for a walk and then I sat down on the couch to each a late lunch...and promptly fell asleep for over an hour.

Why am I telling you all of this?

Simple: This entire time I assumed my phone was sitting on my desk and if anyone needed me I would hear it ring and be able to respond immediately, as is my quirk. (obsession.)

The truth of the matter is...that phone was no where near me at any point during the day once I left the bed.

Yes...it's true.  I'd fallen asleep with my phone next to me on the bed and in the morning when I made the bed because I cannot leave it unmade, I managed to bury the phone under the covers.

I was almost 5 Pm by the time I realized this.  I found my phone and, too my horror, I'd missed (well, nothing from the kids. I mean, it's not like they text me without prompting.) many, many messages from Hubby!

Looking at the list of texts that had come in over the course of the day (and one missed call) I knew if I were on the receiving end of such a complete ignoring, I would be in the middle of a stomach churning fit, certain my lovely spouse was kidnapped, dead, or worse.

Kudos to Hubby.  When I called to apologize he said, "I knew you weren't dead, you checked in on

Face Book."

So, my friends, what have we learned today?

We've learned that Hubby is far more calm than I am when it comes to unanswered texts.

We've learned that my mother had a completely different mind set than I do when it comes to being in contact with our children.

And, finally, we've learned what my #1 Quirk/Obsession is...the one thing that rules over all other obsessions, including being in constant contact with my family:

The unmade bed.  My one Obsession that rules them all.

Fun Fact Friday: Why Sarah Wears Socks to Bed

Hello and Happy Friday!

I'll admit it, I love memes.  I don't post or share many because many of them are offensive or use vulgar language but know this:  90% of all the memes I've seen I think are hilarious.

That said, the one at the top of this post has been making its way around Face Book lately and it's a rare one that actually applies to my life in a wildly personal way.  See, I have worn socks to bed since I was six, and while I tell myself I wear them NOW because I'm old and my feet get cold at night, I feel I have to be honest about why I STARTED wearing socks to bed.

As regular readers of this blog know, I am a HUGE life long fan of the TV show "Emergency."   As a child, Johnny Gage was my personal hero and my imaginary friend.  (Yep, I was the weird kid at school pretending I needed to be rescued and guess who rescued me every time?  Maybe that's how I got my start writing romance...) 

Anyway, one of the episodes of that show that I can say helped shape who I am now was an early one called "Snakebite."   (This ranks as my #1 favorite episode of the series.  So much so, that I own a copy of the original script. Thank you, Ebay.)

The original air date for this episode was October 27, 1973.  That's about two weeks before I turned six.  I was a little, impressionable, and very inventive kid.  So watching my personal hero (and my imaginary bestie) get taken down by a snake...well, I don't recall having a fear of snakes before that moment, but ever since I have been terrified of all things long and scaly.

That night, October 27, 1973, I went to bed, wearing socks and this specific thought:  If I wear these socks to bed the rattle snakes that are OF COURSE lurking at the foot of my bed will not be able to bit through the sock and kill me.

Yes, it's true.  Not only did I develop a crippling fear of snakes that I carry with me even now, decades later, but I thought socks could protect me from the snakes that lived in my bed. 

There was some logical thought behind this.  See, my mother, who watched Emergency with me, explained that rattle snakes liked warm places.  Foot of my bed under the covers, very warm, even in the coldest Michigan winters.

Check.

She told me that if you were very, very still the snakes couldn't see you and then you'd be safe.

Even at the age of five  I knew I kicked in my sleep.  Nowadays I consider that my run for the day, but back then I just knew I kicked a lot.  So staying still...nope.

Check.

Plus, I knew the likelihood of the guys from Station 51 coming in to protect me from snake venom was pretty slim, so I had to protect myself the best way I could.

Check.

Never mind that I take after my paternal grandmother in that most of my life I've run hot rather than cold. Never mind that I don't like the feel of socks in bed.  I braved sweaty feet and the uncomfortable friction between socks and sheets because I HAD TO PROTECT MYSELF AGAINST THE RATTLE SNAKES THAT LIVED AT THE FOOT OF MY BED.

I believe I was in high school before I convinced myself that no, rattle snakes do not hide at the foot of my bed ready to strike.

And yet, even now...I will crawl into bed with fully clothed feet. I tell myself it's because I'm cold. 

But now you know the truth.

And because I'm an idiot, I just figured this out.

       

When you reach a certain age in the middle years of your life (Why yes, I am pretty optimistic about how long I'll be gracing this earth. I mean, if I can't die until my credit cards are paid off I might just live forever) you start to look back and start to look at stuff with the clarity of age and experience.

Such was my morning yesterday.

In order to explain this 43 year break down in realization, I have to go back and explain my early grade school years.

I went to a tiny parochial grade school in the Flint area of Michigan.  It was a two room school, my father was the principal and the 5th-8th grade teacher.  (Until I was twelve I thought everyone went to schools like mine.)  I attended this school from kindergarten until fourth grade and all those years I had exactly one teacher:  we'll call her Mrs. Smith. (Not even remotely her real name.)

Mrs. Smith wrangled grades k-4 (roughly 30 students or more most years) with no breaks other than 3 short recesses (Which is when we had gym class with my dad.  But that's a story for another day.  I will say we managed, and entire school, to have recess with no supervising adults other than my father, who was generally busy keeping score for some gym related sport inside or outside the school. And no one died.) totaling less than an hour a day, during which time she was expected to eat her lunch, correct papers, and make any parental phone calls she had to. Oh, and also lesson plan for five grades.  

I should also mention the following points:

1) 90% of the time she and my father were the only two adults in the building.

2) There was no teachers' lounge. Teachers had to use the same bathrooms the kids did.

3) It was a far more delicate age when teachers simply did not admit to having personal needs such as bathrooms breaks, (Or coffee. I never ever saw Mrs. Smith drink coffee during the day. I know my father did, but in the privacy of maybe the church office when no one was looking.  If I were still teaching, you can bet I'd have a coffee pot brewing in the classroom all day long.)

There. Now you're caught up.

The rules of the classroom were if Mrs. Smith was called out of the room for any reason, she would appoint someone to be in charge.  This person was generally a fourth grader, but sometimes it could be a younger person. The kid would stand at the front of the room and if anyone talked, they would right that kid's name on the board.

That kind of power can corrupt a kid.  There was a lot of bargaining and graft that went on. A kid in charge could write some one's name on the board for any reason...and blackmail that kid's Twinkies right out of his or her lunch.

The kid in charge could also let other students go use the bathroom.  We didn't have bathroom passes, it was a two room school with one hall. It wasn't like we could wander or get lost.  And with less than 50 students in the building, everyone knew where everyone else belonged.

So on this day that tickled my memory so many years later, Mrs. Smith had left the room for something and left a kid in charge. It's not important who that kid was, because it wasn't me.  This blog is about me.  So the kid in charge is of no consequence to the story other than to say this kid allowed me to go to the restroom while Mrs. Smith was out of the room.

Keep in mind for this next part, I was seven, MAYBE eight years old.

I walk into the bathroom. There are two stalls and one sink in there.  (Did I mention this was a TINY school?)  One of the stall doors is closed. No biggie. I figured it was an upper grade girl or something. 

And then I heard a voice.

"Sarah?"

This was no girl. This was a grown up in the bathroom. For a moment I looked around, possibly wondering if God was truly a woman.

But no, it was my teacher.

My TEACHER... IN THE BATHROOM!

This concept to a little kid is foreign.  Sure, by the age of seven kids know what bathrooms are all about. But very few honestly believe grown ups like teachers and pastors and presidents actually use them.  So to be in there with my teacher...that was startling...and for her to talk to me...

This may have been when I began having issues with people in public restrooms.

"Yes?"  I asked in a tiny voice.

"Will you please go get Mrs. Jones?"

Mrs. Jones was the school secretary who worked maybe six hours a week.  On that day she just happened to be in.

Forgetting why I was in there in the first place, I left the bathroom, went to the office, told Mrs. Jones (Not her real name) that Mrs. Smith needed her in the bathroom and then went back to the classroom.

And this is when my idiocy began.

See, the brain can only process information as it can relate it to its own experience.  For example:  If an alien ship landed on my front yard and Martians walked out my brain would have trouble understanding what was happening and would then define the event in terms related to something I'd already experienced.  But if a space ship landed on the front yard of say, someone who had already been probed by aliens, then he or she would be able to absorb the scene and fully understand what it meant.

Such was the case with my seven year old brain.  I had no idea why one woman would need another woman in a school bathroom.  And so, my brain explained the scene in terms I could grasp.

Clearly, Mrs. Smith was stuck on the toilet.

Not only did this seem plausible to me, this was, in my head, the complete God's honest truth that I felt HAD TO BE SHARED.

Which I did, with my best friend, DJ (sort of his first name.)  DJ pretty much went through life thinking I was a moron, while I was convinced we were best buddies.  So he blew me off.  So I turned my other best friend, Kayla (not her name) who was far more sophisticated than I was, and therefore not at all interested in bathroom stuff.  So, hoping to get a rise out of SOMEONE at this shocking news I had, I told my other sort of best friend who was by far the most gullible person I knew, Debbie.  (Oh yeah...that's her real name.)  And Debbie and I had a good giggle over the FACT that Mrs. Smith was so stuck on the toilet she needed Mrs. Jones to help her up.

But here's the thing:  Almost 42 years later  I was putting on my make up and this scene flashed through my brain and, having now been a WOMAN for quite some time, the facts of the event as they probably really were played out in my head.

Yeah, see, Mrs. Smith wasn't stuck on the toilet.

Nope.  Mrs. Smith most likely had gotten caught needing some punctuation protection and since this was a parochial school in the 70's, there was no dispenser of such and thus she needed Mrs. Jones to come in and help her out.

And because I'm an idiot...it took me more than four decades to realize that.