Someone in quality control screwed up when I was in the making, because seems I was born without an “off” switch. I can’t see something that needs doing and overlook it. I TRY. God knows. But it’s like this weird tic or obsession or whatever. I’m the person straightening the crooked painting in the hotel lobby. Sweeping crumbs from tables in restaurants before the server can get to it. Or itching to tuck in the tag that’s sticking from the shirt of the person in front of me in the security line at the airport. (Thankfully I’ve never acted on the latter impulse. These days it doesn’t take much to be branded a terrorist in airports).
At home I’m even worse. Whether it’s a dust ball, smear, or nick, the sucker doesn’t have a chance once Eileen the Terminator moves in with vacuum, sponge or paintbrush. Take yesterday’s DIY project for instance. Recently I’d noticed a spot on one of my kitchen walls where I’d touched up a while back and the paint didn’t quite match. I then tried for weeks to ignore it. I would squint or look the other way or hit the dimmer for the lights. When that didn’t work, I tried talking myself off the ledge. Why couldn’t I be more like hubby Sandy, who’s neat enough but who doesn’t see dust bunnies as aliens from outer space invading Earth? I would ask myself. But it was useless in the end, as I had known deep down all along. The situation had to be rectified. So, out came the ladder and paint supplies. While Sandy read the Sunday paper and shook his head at me in fond exasperation (at least I hope it was fond), I laid down sections of the paper he’d already read, applied painters’ tape, and got to work.
An hour later, I had a perfect pristine wall and a sense of satisfaction. All was right again with the world. Until next time. Then it’ll be once again battle station Galactica to the aliens. I may not possess super powers, but I have extra-strength cleaning agents and that all important ingredient: elbow grease. When I die, my tombstone will be engraved with the words: No job too big or small.