Finding Relief From Compulsion in the Kitchen
Even still, a roll of paper towels is always nearby
I am the paper towel girl.
I will chase the fingerprints from my honed granite countertops with soggy paper towels. I will hook these towels around my wrist into a loop, hunting the coffee table dust particles that are only visible in the afternoon light. Before I cook, I check to see that my supplies are in order: Knife, discard bowl, roll of paper towels. Should a wayward fleck of onion fly away, a damp paper towel rescues.
To the outsider, I’m a perennial neat freak and ecological disaster. You won’t see my bed unmade, even if I’m suffering from the flu. My children’s toys find their way back to the bin shortly after finding their way out. But there’s a more sinister explanation for my obsession with order, a compulsivity that drives it. When company arrives for a night or for the weekend, I can’t relax. Sit down, people say, assuming that my boundless energy is a form of Virgo host perfectionism. It isn’t. I just can’t stand disorder.
I don’t mean that in an “I dislike the mess” sort of way. I physically cannot stand it. My brain rejects it. I am compulsive. I was born this way. My compulsivity has manifested itself in different ways since birth: finger sucking, blood-producing nail-biting, repetitive…
