That Magic Carpet Gave Me Rugburn

Sometimes I wonder who I fucked over in a past life to become such an obsessive compulsive perfectionist. Seriously. Nobody in my family is as much of a perfectionist as me. It’s a running joke that I was adopted, but my mom assures me that she pushed me out of her ladybits after what was probably a long and painful labor that I am perfectly content never thinking about or imagining. Not only am I the only OCD perfectionist in my large and highly dysfunctional family, but I don’t fit in lookwise either. Everyone insists I look like one side of the family or the other, but look at any Christmas picture where the whole family is together and trying not to murder one another and, oh hi, there I am! Standing out like a tall, tan, and well-dressed sore thumb on a hand comprised of otherwise frumpily-dressed (minus the occasional stylish relative who married into the family) fingers. While there’s nobody in my family remotely Honey-Boo-Boo-esque thank god, nobody is exceptionally model-worthy either, and it’s no secret that I somehow wound up with all the looks in the family. So needless to say, you’d think I was adopted. Possibly from a well-dressed family where OCD wasn’t looked at as anything out of the ordinary. I’d like to imagine if I’d been raised by my birth family that I would have grown up being best friends with Quinoa and Chevron – if they weren’t imaginary, that is. We’d live fabulously well-dressed lives be the wet dreams of every child model photographer. And then we’d grow up. The end.

So how does this obsessive compulsiveness relate? I’m not quite sure. All I know is that I’m unhappy if everything in my life isn’t clean and in its place where it belongs. Perhaps I think into things too much or expect things to be perfect outside the confines of my high-rise condo, but I’ve come to realize that you can only control so much before you turn into a psychotic bitch. Sometimes, you just have to let go and realize that everything in life isn’t perfect no matter how OCD your psychotic self tries to go on it.

I’ve tried to clean up my fair share of things up in the past, but sometimes it’s just not worth it. I’ve had successes with furniture and random thrift store finds that have turned into staples in my condo that I can’t imagine living without, but with non-materialistic things (i.e. men for example) sometimes you can only try so hard before you realize they are a lost cause.

I’m sure you’ve heard that “plenty of fish in the sea” line many times. Growing up, you always frequently settle for someone or something because you’re “soooo in love.” Get a grip, people. I’m willing to bet bet you probably were/are not. Let’s face it. We’ve all been there. You think the world is ending because you broke up with whatever-his-name-was, but then, oh wait! You. Start. Dating. Again. It’s like like you’re Aladdin or Jasmine and all of a sudden you’re singing “A Whole New World” but then you wake up hungover the next morning with rugburn from that so-called Magic Carpet. Well, that’s all part of dating. You’ll have the fun, the awkward, and the what-the-hell-was-that?! dates, and if you don’t…well, then you’re not doing it right. There’s plenty of fish out there, and – even if you’re not outdoorsy, because I’m sure as hell not – get out there and get fishing!

So perhaps it’s time to stop cleaning and get out and live a little. It’s time to get dirty and stop being such an obsessive compulsive perfectionist.

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