I am plagued with strange compulsions. Some have been with me as far back as I can recall and I have added several through the years. Compulsions rarely make sense to others, but I often find that those folks who scoff at my compulsions usually have their own rituals that seem perfectly reasonable to them. I find it particularly galling when someone who jumps over sidewalk cracks or changes direction to avoid crossing with a black cat makes fun of my rituals.
One compulsion is ordered reading. I do not like to stray from first to last order. I read the newspaper in order, first page first. For most of my life I read books in the order in which they came to be on my shelf. Now I not only have shelves in every room but I have stacks on end tables, night stands, kitchen counters, and some dangerously tall stacks on the floor. Reading books in any kind of order is impossible. I just pick a book near where I finished the last one. So I consider that compulsion conquered. Of course that means another compulsion added. I buy books. Lots of books. I cannot leave a thrift store or garage sale without perusing the used books. Bookstores are the crack cocaine of book addicts. Imagine throwing a crack head into a pharmacy and saying “just take whatever you find interesting.” I try to stay out of them. And those people who read the end of the book first? I don’t think I could knowingly be friends with them. I can only imagine the conversation when my girls come to clean out my remainders.
One of my most disturbing compulsions came on gradually, building to the current state of must do. It is the curse of correct change. I know that a curse is usually thought of as a hex of some kind, like the curse of the mummy or the curse of the Hope Diamond. Extreme bad luck comes to those cursed. My curse is not in that category so I suppose it might be classified as a paltry curse, as curses go. I inherited this from my mother, whose digging in the bottom of her purse humiliated me on so many occasions. Mama felt that she could not be flimflammed if she provided correct change. Because who knows how many people want to short change old ladies by a quarter or two? She held up check-out lines while she dug in her large purse, making sure every nickel, dime and penny was right. And then she grinned like a bushel basket of possum heads. Her purse could have been filled with bricks it was so heavy. She called one day all a flutter. She had gone to get gas and after it was pumped she realized she had left her wallet at home. But no worries, she actually paid for a full tank of gas with the change from the bottom of her purse.
It crept up on me slowly, that compulsion to provide correct change. I usually apologize and explain that it is my curse to count change. I dig deep into my purse and pull out a fist full of change that is littered with bits of Kleenex and the occasional Advil tablet. As I add the coins up to the total I get a measure of satisfaction in knowing that mama would be relieved to know that I was finally protecting myself from swindlers and cheats.
Recently I was surprised to see my first born digging deep into her bag seeking exact change, rooting like Jack Russell after a chipmunk. She looked pleased when I pointed out the curse was creeping up on her. Pleased by the curse of the correct change! Imagine that. I think I just found out who will inherit my books.