The obsessive compulsive in me

I think I might need to visit the optician.

The obsessive compulsive in me cannot stand the optician. For a start, the optician must sit very close to you to look into your eyes, and it’s usually pretty dark. This makes me very uncomfortable. And then there’s the matter of all the questions. So many questions, and none of them with a correct answer. “Which colour is brighter, the red or the green?” they will ask me, and after a moment’s deliberation, I will pick one. They will hmm, make a note on their paper, and continue with another question.

TELL ME IF I AM RIGHT!!! DID I CHOOSE THE RIGHT ONE???? WHAT IF I HAVE CHANGED MY MIND???

The capitals don’t do justice to how much this drives me crazy. I would rather put my right shoe on before my left, sleep with all the doors open, walk around with one sock on and one off, and eat an entire feast of yellow food before I would even contemplate going to the optician.

So don’t tell me I should go. I know I should. But I won’t.