Scott Drummond

Recently I was flipping through an astrology book that claimed to reveal the true, repulsive qualities of every zodiac sign. As I read about Virgo — my sign — I was less than shocked to hear about our fanatic ways of being neat and organized. I’m not sure that I can owe all of my absurdities to the time of year I was born, but I need some excuse for bordering on obsessive-compulsive.

I first started to notice my eccentric habits about the time I went into middle school. It began with silverware. At dinner I wouldn’t be able to eat all the food on my plate unless I had a separate utensil for each food item. I wouldn’t allow the fork I used to eat my corn to touch the watermelon. My place setting always had at least two forks and usually two knives. My obsession with clean silverware soon opened Pandora’s Box. I began to notice how my food was arranged on my plate and became squeamish when my dinner roll touched spaghetti sauce.

Juicy foods such as watermelon or green beans are the most difficult foods to contain. I’ve found that if I hold the plate at a slight angle, the liquid settles nicely in one area. But then my other food slides right into it. Solving this problem requires me to have numerous plates at the dinner table. When I eat, it looks as though I’m indulging with a five course dinner and all the courses are set out in front of me. Except each plate only has one serving of food on it. I try to use fewer plates when I eat now, but I refuse to trade in all of my silverware.

Throughout middle school and high school, my habits seemed almost normal. I don’t have any siblings, so there was nobody around to tease me about my odd eating habits. The occasional remark from my parents (“Why do you bring five plates to the dinner table?”) and the confused looks on my friend’s faces at restaurants (after requesting two additional clean forks) reminded me that I’m not like everybody else.

During my freshman year of college, when most people were homesick for friends or parents, I missed the cleanliness of my home. At school, I couldn’t afford to clean my bed sheets every week and the pristine, white carpet that I bought for the room became dirty after a couple of days. But my most memorable—and shocking—experience came from observing others. I was absolutely horrified to see people walking down the hall in their towels. Not because I’m a prude, but because it was the same towel they used yesterday.

Living in the dorms, away from the security of my home, I found that my quirkiness magnified. Suddenly I became obsessed with the subpar cleanliness of others while they ridiculed my over-the-top actions. One night I actually stayed home while my friends went out so I could clean their room. I couldn’t take anymore dirty clothes thrown about the tiny space or spoiled food left out for days. It was disgusting, and I was the only one who cared enough to clean it.

Now I share an apartment with two other girls. Having my own place lets me indulge in my passion for cleanliness. I once read in an article that the kitchen sink is the dirtiest place in the house. I immediately drove across the street to Dillons and bought a gallon of bleach. Since then, nearly every week I fill the sink with scalding water and a cup of bleach. I won’t let my kitchen sink be dirty.

Toilets are another hang-up. I am terrified of sitting on dirty toilet seats. I hover over public toilets and will only sit if I lay toilet paper down. The only toilets that I can safely use are the one in my bathroom at my parent’s home and the one in my personal bathroom at my apartment. I keep a hidden stash of Clorox wipes under the sink to wipe off the seat whenever someone else uses my toilets. After that I don’t have any more toilet troubles—until the next person uses it. Even people that I’m close to, such as my roommates and my boyfriend, aren’t spared from my toilet cleaning ritual. If you sit on my toilet, I’m gonna wipe it off.

Some may think that I have obsessive-compulsive disorder, but I don’t worry about it. I know my thoughts border on excessive, but I haven’t reached the point where they control every moment. I am able to let loose sometimes and be a normal, messy college student. Being obsessive-compulsive is like becoming fixated on a certain thought or idea and not being able to let it go. That’s not how I feel, but I like order and good hygiene. I’m sure that some of my quirks will stay with me forever, but I won’t let them take over my life. I’ll seek professional help before I’m spotted in a biohazard suit.

Contact writer at:

mhendrix@kansan.com