What's wrong with me? Let's start here.

I have some quirks. We all do, I know but even I think some of mine are weird. Like my thing with water. Water has places that it belongs and places it doesn't and if water is somewhere it shouldn't be, it makes me twitchy. Not kidding. I can't deal with being wet. As soon as I get out of the shower I dry off every inch of myself, including between my fingers. If I wash my hands, I dry them completely. I love those super strength blow dry things in restrooms and I will be the asshole who stands there for a full minute until her hands are totally dry. Don't get me wrong, I have no issue while I'm actually in the shower, and I totally love swimming but when I'm done, it's over, I need to be dry. Not mostly dry, not air dry, Dry. My husband on the other hand only uses a towel so as not to mentally scar the other members of his family. It is used purely as a cover up, never to dry. He prefers to "air dry" (lazy) and even puts on clothes while he still has water droplets on him! Now that just sends me into a tailspin. I get goosebumps even thinking about it and he just shrugs and says "Eh, they'll dry." ACK! Dry it now! I have been known to take a towel and dry his hair so vigorously that he claims I'm going to break his neck. I say, It needs to be done. Because when he doesn't dry himself, he inevitably comes up and tries to hug me, or some other such nonsense, and gets me wet! Not. Cool. He also doesn't always dry his hands after he washes them. He fails to see this as an issue. My guess is he also fails to see the puddles of water he leaves in his wake. Which is why he leaves them for me to clean up. As I walk through the kitchen. In my socks. Wet socks may just be the bane of my existence. Second only to wet jeans. Or slightly damp jeans. Which my husband often hands me out of the dryer. After which follows a conversation like this:

Me: These are wet.
Him: They're dry; they just came out of the dryer.
Me: They're wet.
Him: They're not wet I just touched them.
Me: They're wet.
Him: They might be a little damp, just put them on they'll be dry in ten minutes.

And then my head explodes from the epic restraint I've showed by not strangling him to death.

And you know what else? Wet counters. I can't deal with seeing wet counters. Public restrooms drive me bonkers. How the hell does the counter get so wet? Did somebody try to wash their cat in there? I have never in my life washed my hands so viciously that I had to wipe down the bathroom*. Am I just doing it wrong? I don't know but I have to fight the urge to wipe down the counters there and at home the counters always get dried after I wipe them down. But I try to be kinda green so if they're only a little wet I fan them. And that is how I know I'm crazy. Because rather than walk away and let them air dry? I Fan. My. Counters. Wet jeans I can justify but there's just no way to talk through waving at your counters.


*That reminds me of a story from when I waitressed at The Pour House in Boston, remind me I'll tell you about it.