I have low-grade self-diagnosed OCD. I self-diagnosed, from memory, after reading an article about OCD and how some suffers feel compelled to pick up or move in-the-way items and stow sharp objects because they're worried people will slip, trip and/or be stabbed and they will die and it will be all the OCD's persons fault. That pretty much sums me up.
Isn't that grand? A fucked mind for a fucked body. Oh well, you play the cards you're dealt etc.
Any-hoo, so when I see something that should be rectified—such as encountering a potential trip or slip hazard like an object in a foot trafficked area such as a glossy magazine left on a smooth floor surface—then despite my semi-failed but still chugging along muscular-skeletal system, I will with a groan of effort either pick it up. Or, without any real effort, toe it into a location that won't be in the way of walkers.
When it comes to my personal safety, especially with the recent hip replacement (1), lately a thought has crossed my mind that 'other universe Mikey didn't fix that and he died.' This in turn makes me more likely to fix things (or avoid them) if I encounter them.
Yes, that's right, the many-worlds theory has landed on Mikey and infused his OCD with a patina of Sci-Fi. Like today, when after a particularly brutal session on The Hell Wagon (2), I was aching and trembling, with sweat dripping around my puffy man-nips, as I flicked out the bathmat before the shower, and a potential slip/trip presented itself. For one of the corners had folded under itself and presented a large bulge at the front. Instantly in my mind's eye I saw the lifeline, a great green shimmering Tron-esq effort, snuffed out for a parallel universe Mikey, all because he'd failed to heed the danger of the bulging bathmat (3) and not rectified it.
I am determined to be the longest-living Mikey of all the multi-verse versions of moi. I do feel sorry though for the two parallel Mikeys that died with the Pulmonary Embolism I(we) suffered during the recent hip operation when it lodged in their brain for one of them and heart for the other, alas killing them (I lucked out as it landed in my lungs and just knocked me unconscious). After-all that's just bad luck as there's nothing they could have done to stop that happening apart, of course, from avoiding the operation entirely (4).
(doffs hat, downcasts head).
Oh and a shout-out to the Mikey that dashed his brains out on the brickwork on his first foray outside on crutches because unlike me theWife wasn't there to catch him when he fell backwards.
(re-doffs hat, re-downcasts head).
So there you have it. I have managed to enhance a mild mental quirk with quantum mechanics ... which is somewhat ironic as I am barely numerate (5).
(1) I had a dream the other night that people from my various stages of life—University Mikey; Early-in-Canberra Mikey, Second Work Area Mikey etc.—were on crutches when we ran into each other; we'd all had recent hip replacements! Then we swapped manly stories about near-misses with falling, pain management etc. Even my dreams aren't safe from me.
(2) The Hell Wagon, an exercise bike on semi-perm loan from Casso, the Titania of the suburb we both live in (unnamed for privacy reasons), was the name given to the bike on its initial arrival at our house. For it was a most brutal object d'exercise to use—it was like the wheel of pain from Conan. Every turn of the pedal seemed to be incredibly difficult. I initially chalked it up to my constant physical failings but theWife investigated and found the wiring for the difficulty adjustment mechanism had come loose. Being a most useful mammal she fixed it and The Hell Wagon was re-christened The Purgatory Cart since it was now less painful to use, but still rather annoying as all exercise for the sake of exercise when one is blessed with a semi-fucked body is. Alas when I got on today the wiring had come loose again and it took me 24.55 minutes to reach my minimum cease-and-desist point of 5.5 kays. theWife will naturally now fix it.
(3) Which, of course, sounds like a Sherlock Holmes title—The danger of the bulging bathmat. Turns out the bathmat was really a Bulgarian Opera Singer who'd studied poisons under an Indian Fakir and when Mrs Throsby tripped she went head first into the mirror. A mirror laced with poison! Of course she died mainly from the severed jugular and fractured skull but if she'd lingered longer .... poison!
(4) Thus there's another me that made that decision and is hobbling around with his original nearly dead hip and wondering if he made the right choice. I expect if he knew of the deaths of other Mikey (Brain) and other other Mikey (Heart), he would!
(5) Unlike that other Mikey that had a maths-whiz brain and ended up working for the team at the Hadron Collider (5a). Alas when they did one of those recent potentially world(universe)-ending experiments I(he) fucked up and it did actually re-start(cause?) the Big Bang. I am of course hoping he wasn't somehow spat into my universe and complicated doppelganger shenanigans do not ensue.(5a) I had deliciously initially written this as Hardon Collider. You just know there's a gay porno out there with that title and that was filmed guerrilla-style after core hours, in a dude's Nuclear Power Plant workplace, perhaps using the back-up (slash) training control room for the backdrop. 'Hey man, check out my rod. It's approaching meltdown!' (Bocca, Bocca, Wow, Wow).