I am, I said
To no one there
And no one heard at all
Not even the chair
I am, I cried
I am, said I
And I am lost, and I can’t even say why
Leavin’ me lonely still
I am single-minded.
Others might use different words. O-C might come up, for instance, if someone knew me really well. I don’t suffer from Monk-levels of neuroses, but I definitely have my quirks.
For instance, with comments? I like to have even numbers on my comments at all times. Unless, of course, the comment ends in five, in which case, it’s all right. Don’t ask me why. But if the number ends in nine that bugs me, and I’ll have to comment myself in order to bring it up to the next set of numbers. 29? No way. Gotta be 30. Same with 19. Bugs. Me. But 15 or 25? That’s fine. I can let that go.
I also can’t post my own comments back to back. If I think of something else to say, or I notice I accidentally missed someone who commented before me, I have two choices. I can delete my own comment and re-write it. Or I can wait for someone else to comment. If it’s a pressing need, I do the first thing. Otherwise I just bide my time.
Another instance, I fiddle with paragraphs on my blog until they look just right. I delete words if I wind up with a widow. (One word by itself on a line) I’m driven slowly insane by owning two different computers. If it looks awesome on my Ibook, it’s probably fucked up on my desktop downstairs. *headdesk*
(I know, right? I’m… quirky).
Anyway, back to being single-minded. In some respects, this is a good thing. It gives me the ability to cleave to a project until it’s finished. It gave me the determination to stick with writing, no matter what anyone else said, or how grim my prospects looked.
But in other ways, it’s not so good. Because say I fix on a need to do something (whether it’s buy new shoes, open a bank account, get a cat, hire a publicist), then it’s all but impossible for me to shift gears until I get that one thing taken care of. It preys on me. I think about it. I try to figure out ways I can get this thing done to the exclusion of all else.
Everything doesn’t hit me like that, though. I mean, I can say, “We need milk and eggs,” without immediately fixating and trying to scheme ways to get milk and eggs at midnight. So I don’t know what the trigger is: why I obsess over some things and not others.
For instance, when I decided I wanted this blog redone… my web designer had a personal issue, and said there would be some delay before she could get to it. I totally understood. I’m not a heartless harpy. But the thing is…
I. Could. Not. Wait.
Once I made up my mind I wanted a new design, I fiddled and fiddled until I figured it out myself. I couldn’t write, suddenly, because I was thinking about my blog template. How could I fix it? What could I do to make it look better? Was there any way I could do it myself?
I hate waiting on other people. Does that make me a control freak? It’s not that I mind paying to have work done; I just hate having stuff out of my hands. And I hate not having it done right when I want it. I don’t particularly like what that says about me, but I own it.
Being a mom means multi-tasking. Y’all know that, I’m sure. It means checking homework, reading books, looking at projects, checking supplies, making dinner, and what the hell did the dog do now? Given my single-minded bent, this is often hard for me. I have one thing on my mind and I don’t honestly give a shit about the 1000 other things that need to be taken care of. Why? Because I work in a linear fashion. I don’t make lists, but if I did, I’d want to work through them in order.
The older I get, the more weird shit I see in myself. (I’m starting to like Neil Diamond, for instance. Gawd. One day, I might be rocking out to Engelbert Humperdink in my polyester double-knit jumpsuit. Sigh.) I don’t go around touching light posts or washing my hands compulsively, but I think I’m definitely west of normal. What about y’all? I can’t be the only one with weird habits. So spill it!