Some people call it sickness. I prefer to call it imposing order on an otherwise unorderly world.
This is how I got my name, Mr P.
I’m by no means perfect, I know that, but in order to cope with that truth, I am compelled to impose perfection on small parts of my world where I can.
Like making my bed, or tucking my shirt, or folding my laundry.
If someone tries to offer to do any of those things for me, I cringe, try to deter, then; if I politely can’t dissuade, I grit my teeth and through a frozen smile, watch in horror as my perfect world falls to pieces. My wall against reality, or the normal human condition is breeched.
For example, when I go to bed my sheets must all align. If they don’t then I can’t sleep.
When I pack my bag for a trip, all my shirts folded, must align perfectly with my pants. All must, in folded perfection, spanning exactly, the width of my suitcase.
When I cut my sandwich it must be perfect halves. Pies in perfectly even fractional wedges.
My silverware can’t have any nicks, spots or grime.
My shirts must be ironed so that the sleeve seam is on the bottom.
The toilet paper roll must be put on so that it unrolls from the top.
My underwear waist band can have no wrinkles,and my shirt a perfect pleat when tucked.
And i could go on, there are many more added, and very few are dropped. All these bricks of perfection make up the walls of my little fortresses of perfection.
Chaos abounds in my life just outside that wall, chaos called reality.
I freely admit that it is folly, but by holding random things to perfection I inoculate myself to that chaos, protecting me from its disorder, allowing me to function as a semi-normal person. At least i can think so.
I am Mr. Perfect, perfectly obsessive.
©The Autobiography of Mr. Perfect, 2012, written entirely on my iPhone.