Therapist Needed

Immensely.

Those who know me know that there are things I am OCD about.  Things that I need to be just so.  Though I don't know if it's a case of OCD or just a case of I am a pain in the ass and I want things done my way.  Regardless, I have decided to blame my need for perfection on my long-suffering mother, as Freud would no doubt have me do.

Once as a child, I decided ironing was fun.  The process of smoothing out each and every wrinkle and making sure none of the hems flipped the wrong way was so awesome.  I told my mother that, while I continued to carefully smooth away each and every imperfection from the fabric, carefully planning how I would turn the cloth to make sure I got every inch and didn't cause any more wrinkles.

Instead of realizing then what a freak I was destined to become, my mother went and got all the tablecloths that had been sitting in storage for two years.  I ironed for three hours until I was forced to go to bed.

So, no, Lady Gaga, I was not "born this way."  It's all my mother's fault.

And I still secretly love ironing.