Standing in the way

The latest issue of the Sainsburys magazine has an article that caught my eye. It's all about control freaks, how they develop, how to identify if you are one, and how to manage your symptoms if you are. This seems especially relevant given that I'm living with one. Of the ten questions they gave, Flatmate L answered a definite yes to 8, and a qualified no to 2 (I still argue that if the reason your answer is no is simply because you do something part of the time, not ALL of the time, it's a fairly solid yes. And saying no because it's a question about relationships with partners and you're single is also cheating). I scored 2 out of 10. No surprises on either front, really, given that we're basically Oscar and Felix. I'll leave it to you to figure out which of us is which.

My personal gripes related to intolerance of other people's lateness (there wasn't anything about my own tardiness in there, so that was fine) and a hatred of other people touching my stuff. Whilst L shared these things, she seemed to be surprised about the latter answer coming from me. We were having this conversation in my room, the door shut for study time not having deterred her from coming in and parking my bed. She looked around my room in surprise. I will be the first to admit that I'm not the neatest person in the world. In fact, given time, I could end up being one of those people who have stories about them and the health hazard their living environment presents to others. But there's still a clear path around 2 sides of my bed, and at least part of the mess comes from a combination of study and my extra-curricular money raising activities at my sewing machine, so I was fine with the mess. I did, however, have some objections to the idea that just because I'm a little bit relaxed about putting things away, I would be fine with someone coming in and poking around in my stuff.

I think part of the surprise from L comes from one of her more irksome habits of the moment. When she doesn't launch herself onto my bed on her nightly visits for random chatter, usually barging through a door closed to give a hint that I want to be left alone, she stands by my desk picking up whatever flotsam and jetsam happens to have floated to the top. She reads my letters, she flicks through my books, she pokes through my sewing materials, she smells my perfumes and creams, she comments on the amount of chocolate I have piled up ready to be taken home for presents. And it drives me insane. How she hasn't noticed the teeth gnashing before I have no idea, but she doesn't seem to notice when I tell her to get out either, so I'm guessing the need to talk to someone can blind her to all else sometimes.

Perhaps I'm being over sensitive. After all, this did come after she walked in tonight, fresh home from her trip, still with her pack on her back, and started berating me for having the nerve to be running through a load of washing. Apparently, I was supposed to know what time she would be home, and to assume that she would be taking control of the machine from that moment until she heads off again on Tuesday. Sadly, my own need for fresh clothing got in the way. That and the horrific effects being felt this morning after last night's debauchery at a friend's flat-leaving party. If I'd been able to handle any sort of movement before 4 this afternoon, I'm sure I would have dealt with my washing sooner. Actually, I probably wouldn't have, but the anticipation of a night home alone was driving me forward at that point. It wasn't to be, however. So now I've messed with her sense of control, and shocked her with the elements of my life that I like to have some charge over. And I've got a whole three weeks of thinking of ways to mess with her head and take away some of her control, with my new-found knowledge. Because sometimes, as wrong as it sounds to say it, it's just fun to torment the obsessive. Besides, I'm sure it's good for her...