“Ummm . . .”
Two more employees passed through the door I held open while Marjorie stared at me expectantly. It was obvious she had a story to share. It was also obvious she’d have to wait four more minutes before sharing. Why? Because I’m a loser, that’s why. Electric authority? Give me a break. How about fear. Flat-out fear. I shook my head and pointed toward the bathrooms. She nodded and started unpacking the box.
I released the door handle and backed away. With each step, I felt the tension melt, my heartbeat slow, my will sag heavy in my chest.
You did the right thing, the voice said with hesitant relief, like she wasn’t entirely sure I didn’t still plan to betray her. But the door closed shut, and I was too much of a coward to touch the handle again.
You win, I thought. You always win.
Well, now you’re making me feel bad, the voice said.
Badly, I corrected.
Whatever.
I hid in the women’s restroom until 7:58 A.M., then emerged feeling sulky and defeated. I made my way back to the office, pulled open the door, and began my second work ritual of the day: counting my steps to my cubicle. I forgot all about Marjorie until chilly fingers slithered around my upper arm and pulled me to a halt.
“Real quick,” she whispered, leaning close to my ear. “Dan is pissed today. Totally pissed. We lost that big account with Akers Pond.”
“Was that what you wanted to tell me before?” I whispered back.
Marjorie shook her head. “I wanted to tell you about my date. I just found out about this. Tread lightly.”
“What’s it got to do with me?” I asked.
“I’m just telling you to stay out of his way today so you aren’t inadvertently yelled at,” Marjorie explained. She released my arm.
“But I do everything perfectly at work,” I said, smiling sweetly.
“I know. And it’s disgusting,” she replied.
Just then, Dan rounded the corner. Marjorie grabbed her phone and pretended to look busy. I avoided his eyes and continued down the corridor to my cubicle—tucked in the back of the office in the far corner. My little nook where no one bothered me. It was nice. I had a window. And a plant.
Forty-seven steps. Every day. Every time. I only let it bother me the tiniest bit that it wasn’t an even number. I tried to make it an even number once. I took a long stride into my cubicle on Step 46 but knew it looked strange, like I was trying to avoid a large puddle. That wouldn’t do. I didn’t want people to know I was a freak. So then I tried slicing Step 47 in two. Two small steps into my workspace to give me an even forty-eight. But that looked stupid as well, like I was tiptoeing to my desk.
Yes, these are the thoughts that occupy my brain on a daily basis: How many steps to take. How many hairbrush strokes. Making sure I line up my proofreading pens just so. Making sure my make-up is just so. Sitting in my fucking desk chair just so. It’s exhausting living a “just so” life. And I don’t want to do it, but the idea of not counting, not arranging, not tic-ing sends my heart reeling with anxiety.
I can’t live on the edge. I’m not a day trader. I don’t run my own business. I have a job that holds no real level of risk. I’m not a risk-taker, after all. I like security in my work life. I like precision. That’s why I’m a proofreader. It goes hand-in-hand with my OCD: two little quirky freaks in love. I think they rub off on each other. My mother keeps insisting I find new work doing something that requires a different schedule every day to help with my “condition.” Like a sales job. Could you imagine? I’d be tic-ing all over town.
No one at work suspects I’m OCD. They just think I’m uber organized and task-oriented. They seem to like that about me; they know I’ll never miss a deadline. I’m reliable. Trustworthy. Punctual.
Sounds boring. Hmmm. Am I? No, I don’t think a dull personality is the reason behind all my failed romances. I’m not boring. Buttoned up at work, yes, but not boring. My problem is that I can’t suppress my urges, and eventually they expose themselves the longer I’m with someone. The guy sees the tic and gets the hell out of Dodge.
“You want any coffee?” Marjorie asked.
I had just opened my email for the day and was about to start on the Blue Ice Water campaign portfolio that was due by ten.
I shook my head. “You know I don’t drink coffee.”
“Bleh. I keep forgetting. And who the hell doesn’t drink coffee?”
“Lots of people,” I replied.
“I don’t know how you can make it through the day without coffee. God, I’d die without caffeine.”
I didn’t need caffeine. I had anxiety. Anxiety was good for a few things: I exercised harder. I could lift things that were really too heavy for a woman my size to lift. I had no problem staying awake all day to do my job. Good stuff. The negatives? Well, the elephant on my chest that made it difficult to breathe. The rapid-fire heartbeat that made me believe I’d drop dead of a heart attack at any minute. The occasional shaking and sweating. Not good stuff.
I finally tore my eyes away from my email.
“You’ve got five minutes. And I’m serious. You know I’m timing you,” I said.
Marjorie’s round face lit up, and she plopped into a spare chair in my cubicle.
“I only have five minutes anyway,” she said quickly. “His name’s Rob, and he works in advertising at another firm—”
“Hold up,” I interrupted. “Another firm? No. That’s sleeping with the enemy.”
“No kidding,” Marjorie mumbled. She hung her head to hide the grin, but I saw.
“Already?” I said, just the slightest bit disappointed. “Didn’t we talk about this? You said you were gonna start waiting until the fourth date.”
“I know,” she replied, shaking her head. I watched her short, auburn curls bounce.
“What made you do it?” I asked.