I’m not particularly proud to admit this, but there are moments when I find myself feeling a bit sorry for my situation with obsessive-compulsive disorder. Why couldn’t I have something less intrusive and more straightforward to manage, like excessive earwax or a hammertoe? Yet, as I contemplate the removal of that earwax, I find myself appreciating my OCD. After all, it’s not the end of the world. I can still enjoy a rather normal life without needing orthotics.
As I sit by the hotel pool on the first day of my five-day getaway, I take in the surroundings. The resort is stunning, featuring a massive infinity pool with fountains splashing around it. A staff member is circulating with ice-cold water infused with fresh strawberries and warm towels. I am alternating between a captivating novel and a tricky word puzzle. It feels like a slice of paradise.
But then there’s that child whose voice disrupts my bliss: “Help! Mom, Dad, look! Help! Look at me! Help!” Obviously, he’s never heard of The Boy Who Cried Wolf. I shoot him a glare, hoping to communicate my displeasure, and that’s when I notice it: a massive booger he’s proudly plucking from his nose. He raises it in triumph, and I find myself silently wishing, please eat it, please eat it. No luck. He flicks it into the water — the same water my husband is urging me to join him in. I’m going to have to brave the snot to reach him.
After contemplating my options, I decide that if I enter the pool from the opposite side, I can avoid whatever childhood viruses the Screamer might be spreading. So, I do a little dance around the hot pool deck and swim to my husband from behind. He looks surprised when I finally approach him.
“Why didn’t you just come in at the steps by our chairs?” he asks.
“Oh, I just wanted to sneak up on you. I was being stealthy.”
“Well, you might want to rethink the hot coal dance, because everyone was staring at you.”
He hugs me and carries me through the water. At first, I relish the moment — it’s been ages since we’ve had a chance to be alone in the pool. But then, my mind starts scanning the surface for The Booger. What if it has drifted to the other side? Is there a current in here?
“Did you hear me?” he asks.
“No,” I admit. “I was distracted.”
“By the baby?”
No, by my overwhelming need for a Hazmat suit.
“What baby?” I glance around, hoping to spot a cute toddler to distract me from the horrific image of a giant blob of snot.
“Over there,” he points. “Playing on the steps.”
I spot the toddler, whose sagging diaper indicates it’s definitely loaded. I try to elevate my head higher on my husband’s shoulder while keeping my hair perfectly perched atop my head. I clench my muscles, battling the onslaught of E. Coli I’m sure is lurking nearby, and strategize my escape from this germ-filled pool.
“Can we get out?” I plead.
“So soon? It’s lovely out here.”
“I know, but I’m burning. I really should get out of the sun.” (And away from this Petri dish.)
With a resigned sigh, my husband releases me. He’s learned through the years that reasoning with me during an OCD episode is futile. My mind is wired to obsess over germs and health risks, and although therapy and medication have helped me lessen my compulsions, the thought of soaking in a pool of boogers and feces is simply too much for my anxiety to bear. No amount of Purell will fix this. I need a full-blown nuclear shower.
I close my eyes and splash toward the steps across from the toddler. As soon as I’m out of the pool, I rush upstairs to shower in the hottest water possible and wash my swimsuit with Woolite before hanging it out to dry on the balcony. Suddenly, I feel utterly exhausted. A nap is in order.
I strip the bed of its comforter and decorative pillows (because hotels never wash those) and inspect the sheets for any signs of contamination. I wish I had one of those Luminol lights the CSI agents use! Do they sell those on Amazon? As I sit with my legs stretched out on the bed and my laptop on my lap, I notice the slightest curling of my second and third toes…