As a card carrying member of the OCD club, I've dealt with all sorts of stuff over the last several years.
The birth of three children while I somehow managed to stay upright and conscious.
More nights than I care to remember where I checked the same freaking lock for the 30th time.
Winters spent with cracked and bleeding hands from all the stupid hand washing I've done. Although I curtailed that pretty much when I decided MY skin wouldn't touch a public door.
My tie, jacket, and sleeve get a pretty good workout now. If you're a guy, you sort of know what I'm saying. Men? They're pigs. If you've ever seen a guy do his business, check his hair in the mirror, then walk out of a public restroom without so much as a glance at the sink, you know what I'm talking about. So I just avoid touching ANYTHING after I've washed my hands. So far? So good.
Which brings me to tonight. As some of you know, I haven't been on a plane in 11 years. After Ang and I celebrated our 5th anniversary in Cancun (the night before we left, she told me she was pregnant with Ciera) we were flying back to Raleigh, NC and for no apparent reason, I panicked. I haven't been on a plane since then.
63 days from now, I'm shipping myself up to Boston. Much to Ang's chagrin, it seems that a weekend in Boston, by myself and going to 3 games at Fenway, is my magical cure.
Only it isn't. I'm freaking out just thinking about it. Today, I took the first step in assuring I'll actually do it. I went to the airport.
I wanted to see where I'd need to be dropped off and I even went inside to find the Skybus terminal, just so I knew where I needed to go. And I didn't pass out, although I did have sweaty palms and my left leg wouldn't stop doing it's best impression of a jackhammer.
I'm more of a Ninny than I thought I was.
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