Surprise, surprise, I’m particular. Not overly neat, unfortunately, a common misconception of OCD. Although I do have an especially finicky method of organization based on feelings of rightness and a splash of paranoia. Finding my workstation, home, or belongings out of order can often trigger my anxiety, just like my anxiety exacerbates my obsessive compulsions and intrusive thoughts.
Even being completely uninformed and blindsided—which is definitely how I felt during this morning’s protest—is easier to handle as long as I have access to my tools. Since I was missing huge gaps of information when confronting the news crew, I bought myself time. Drawing the ire of the reporter, I convinced the picketers not to speak with media, but to instead give management a couple of weeks to arrange a proper forum to discuss possible solutions.
Jan showed up around then to escort the news crew off the property. As she was in the motorized chair, I thought she might need my help, but she told off the reporters so thoroughly I considered asking her for tips.
In the time since, I’ve learned that Jan ran the two-hundred-acre-property community with her husband, Ed, who passed away a little over a year ago. Occupancy plummeted as cost of living continued to soar—along with complaints from residents—so management sent notice they’d be raising monthly fees. Residents opposed, attending a board meeting where they didn’t feel heard, but once Jan announced she’d simply open the property to the greater community for a fee if they didn’t comply, things escalated.
To put it mildly.
It’s why the protestors showed up in their underwear. Their point was that they weren’t shy or modest, out here living their best life, so if people were going to bring their children, they should be ready to answer a whole lot of questions.
“Because we’re also not quiet,” Grandma Helen had yelled in my ear, throwing a fist in the air, and the crowd cheered. Although there were a handful of delayed “What’s going on?” and “What did she say?” queries as well.
“If they’re planning on golfing, they should also know”—Wanda snagged hold of the proverbial torch and poured on a little kerosene—“that the Silver Swingers keep their language salty and wear their shortsshort.”
Shading sea-glass green eyes with her hand, she scanned the crowd. “Bob honey, where are you? Isn’t that right?”
“Oh God,” I’d groaned, and Wanda told me not to worry, they meant swinging golf clubs, not the other kind. But then it was hard not to contemplatethat.
Not a single person stood as they passed the bullhorn to a man up front, seated in a camping chair, legs so wide-open I assumed he was in the middle of a manspreading competition. And while I was warned about the shorts’ length—or lack thereof—no one warned me about thetight.
“Hell yeah! We get so focused on our strokes, we don’t mind if our balls hang out the bottom, neither,” Bob hollered, and I’d never been so tempted to run away.
“Same goes for cannonballs off the diving board,” the man next to him added with the raise of his fist and a shout.
The words, they haunt me.
“Then there’s the matter of the skyrocketing STI and STD rates,” Jan says, bringing me back to the present as she lifts a couple inches out of her seat and rifles through the papers in the inbox I moved. “I’m sure they’re not helping.”
“Come again?” I say, wincing at my poor choice of words—just when I’d finally managed to forget about Bob and the Silver Swingers’ saggy balls, too.
This is clearly a bigger job than previously conveyed, closer to property manager than doing publicity, and I can’t afford a single mistake. There’s the tightening tell of my throat, too many stresses stacking up and blocking my windpipe.
Stapled printouts of articles are fanned in front of me, and I’m starting to feel overwhelmed, my lungs shoving the air I was totally using from my mouth.
This is my specialty. I know how to do this.
Never mind the fact I was just fired for failing a client.
An invisible fist clamps around my throat, at the ready so quickly these days. It squeezes harder, robbing me of the rest of my air. I inhale, counting off five things I can see while rubbing my fingers over my polyester skirt and concentrating on the slip and slide of the fabric.
Breathe out.
Smooth granite, a canister of pens, the keyboard and the sound it’d make if I struck the letters. Several scents hang in the air, like Office Depot and New Car Smell had a baby. Snagging hold of the ocean breeze, I let its saltiness roll over my tongue, engaging the last of my five senses.
For years I’d spiral and gasp through crying jags, unable to return to a calmer state for hours. I didn’t just worry, I obsessed; my feelings didn’t get hurt, they got decimated.
But after having my emotions used against me one too many times, from classmates who mocked my tears to supposed friends, and even my own mother—she didn’t just guilt trip, she sent you via Greyhound—I resolved to fix that sensitive, weak side of me.
It’s not like I’m “fixed,” but in addition to having found the right medications and a lot of therapy, I’ve gotten faster at deploying my grounding techniques—sometimes I can even skip steps, regaining control before anyone even notices anything’s off.
That doesn’t mean I’m not still hella stressed after everything I’ve seen and heard so far, but digging in is the only way to get things done, so I suck in another lungful of air to prepare and skim the bolded headlines.
Frisky Seniors: Shocking New Study Reveals Dramatic Rise in STIs Among the Elderly Inhabitants of Lakeview Retirement Village
Senior Citizen Shenanigans: Golf Cart DUI Accidents From Local Retirement Community Spill Into Our City
“Of course, the reporters refuse to reveal their sources.” Jan heaves a sigh and wrings her hands, her worries prickling mine. “If we’ve got a leak, we’re also dealing with a huge HIPAA violation. It has to be coming from the clinic, right?”
