Am I Anally Retentive?

It’s a question that has plagued humanity since the beginning of time...okay, perhaps not quite that long…or maybe it is that long, I mean how do we know when time began, or indeed, if time has even yet begun…and what is “time” anyway? I say “time” is a four-letter word and should not be confused with “thyme”, which is, after all, a five-letter word…

…start again…

Am I Anally Retentive?

It’s a question that has plagued humanity for awhile. In terms of its importance, it sits right alongside the other biggies: Is there a God? Will I have children? Do I want fries with that? And it’s a question that has plagued me in recent times. Although, perhaps the word “plagued” is a little strong. It’s not like I’ve been lying awake at night pondering the existence or non-existence of anal retentiveness in my being. I haven’t lost my appetite with the overwhelming heaviness of such a metaphysical dilemma. I haven’t retreated into isolation in order to meditate on the possibility of a metaphorical non-evacuation. No. Maybe “it has crossed my mind” would be more apt. Still, this doesn’t diminish it's potential impact. Deciding whether or not one exhibits the characteristics of an “excessively orderly and fussy” person (as “anally retentive” is defined by The Australian Concise Oxford Dictionary) is life changing. And, if I am such a person, I need to decide if I’m going to try to reform my fussy ways or if I’m just going to give in and embrace my retention.

So, what behaviour have I been exhibiting to cause me to believe I may be AR. It's mainly been an accumulation of little things; doing my laundry at the same time every week, washing the dishes only on Sundays and Wednesdays, ensuring the bottom sheet is completely smooth before I get into bed, only eating chocolate on days of the week ending in 'Y'. But there was "an incident", something that I think may have pushed me from being a little fussy over into the chasm of AR. It was the Rubbish Bins. Or, more correctly, new people moving into my block of flats who not only put their rubbish into my bins (and filled them to the brim, so there was no room for my rubbish), but put stuff into my recycle bin that doesn't go in the recycle bin. IT MAKES ME CRAZY. Well, I don't take that kind of thing passively, no, not at all. I put my foot down (note to self: when putting one's foot down, make sure there are no rocks nearbye). No more. I damn well took my bins from against the front fence (where all the bins are usually kept) and moved them to a spot just to the left of my bedroom window. Pretty darn clever. Sure, the other tenants could still potentially put their rubbish into my bins, but the odds of this happening have now been significantly reduced. Anyone who has been to my flat will know what I mean, and anyone else is welcome to drop by and have a look at my new rubbish bin arrangement - it's pretty impressive.

But was the moving of the rubbish bins the final link in a chain that will now shackle me to the un-bendy steel of fussiness? Will this be the snowflake that causes an avalanche of excessive orderliness? I guess only time will tell. But there is one thing of which I am sure; moving my rubbish bins to their new location has brought me great satisfaction.