Setting your own deadlines--or OCD

My neighbors came for happy hour tonight, and Jay was telling me that Susan had trimmed back the ivy growing up my wall. I protested that Greg, who keeps my yard, could do that, but she shrugged and said, "I was already there." Jay said she was compulsive, and a bit later I confessed to something that indicated I too am compulsive--which I guess everyone who knows me is already aware of.
But my self-imposed deadlines struck me again tonight with a bit of humor. I had dreaded a long weekend with nothing to do. Happy hour took care of tonight, and I invited a friend for supper tomorrow. Then I decided I have to cook an Irish supper, so I'm doing a Reuben casserole (now there's an experiment!) and an Irish potato salad. This means two trips to two different groceries, which I had planned anyway, but the potato salad recipe says, "Best prepared the day before." Well, I can't do that, but I can cook it in the morning. That makes a very busy morning. I had planned to drop some things off at another friend's house, but I emailed her that my plate was full tomorrow and I'd get them to her next week--and that's when it struck me. My plate is indeed full, but with self-imposed deadlines. Nobody else cares. If I greeted my guest at the door tomorrow night and said, "I didn't cook. Let's go out," she'd say, "Fine. Where do you want to go?" But of course I won't do that. I'll have individual casseroles waiting and that blasted potato salad. And somewhere during the day I'll set out dishes for dinner for 12-13 on Sunday (I don't have to cook, just make a fruit salad--Jordan is making an enchilada casserole for her own birthday dinner).
My first thought is how silly is that to have filled my empty weekend to the point that I feel busy?. But I thought about it some more and realized there's an upside to this. A friend wrote me the other day saying she admired my energy and enthusiasm. Well, I think energy comes from doing the compulsive things I do, from keeping busy, reaching out to friends, loving the world around me. If I'd have left the weekend empty, I'd probably have a pity party of one. So tomorrow, much as I've enjoyed sleeping late with the time change, I'll probably pop out of bed and get to the store, so I can make the potato salad--and I'll fret because it hasn't really sat overnight. Being compulsive can get silly sometimes, but it ain't all bad.

OCD--do you suffer from it?

Compulsive behavior, or, less gently put, obsessive compulsive disorder. Who, me? Leave dirty dishes in the sink overnight? Never. Leave home in the morning with the bed unmade. Not my mother's daughter! My obsessive behavior carries over into lots of areas of my life. The other day three things were on my errand list on an already crowded day--buy printer paper, buy some back-up of the cosmetics I like, and get the car washed. There was absolutely no reason all had to be done that day. I had enough printer paper for the weekend; I probably had enough make-up and eye shadow for a month; and the car, while dirty, would run just fine if I didn't get it washed. Did they all get done that day? You bet--except the car, because the rear window on the driver's side suddenly refused to go up, so driving through an automatic car wash was not a good idea. I made an appointment to have it fixed this week and will get them to wash it when they fix the window.
But compulsiveness carries over into my writing. I was on a roll last week of writing 2000 words a day, come hell, high water, or my grandchild. I did that for four days, though I have doubts about the wisdom of writing to a certain word count. You may pad, write junk, anything to get those words down--and later have to delete half of them. Still, since I write short, one of my big worries is always that I won't make the minimum for a cozy novel--I aim for 70,000 words but often fall short. Anyway, after feeding my compulsion for four days I hit a wall. During a long, sleepless night, I worked out where the plot was going and got up early in the morning feeling elated, compulsively made notes. And haven't written a thing since--almost five days. Life gets in the way even of compulsiveness--the illness and death of my dog, a trip to visit one son and his family, company for dinner, a talk to prepare. But tonight my mind is on the 2,000 words I'll write tomorrow.