Bald culture should hold Mr. Nicholson in esteem. But the point of this post is, I've developed a complex. Before I leave my apartment, I check the stove. But checking just once is no longer copacetic.
First, I examine the burner-knobs. I make sure that each line on each knob is aligned with each OFF marker. Fractions of a centimeter irk me. Next, I visually inspect each burner for even the smallest hint of lingering flame; following this, I touch the burners to make sure they are all cold. My hand goes back and forth, even re-checking burners like an autistic game of Pop Goes The Weasel. Lastly, the smell-test, lest there is leaking gas (I could have inadvertently cocked a knob askew). Oh God, the knobs! This brings me back to double-checking... everything. 'And so on...' as Kurt Vonnegut used to say. I might as well be baking a trout, since this obsession can keep me at the stove a long time. 'So it goes.'
When I do escape out the door, down the stairs, onto the street, the unsettling feeling that I have left a burner on has been known to ambush me like the Viet Cong. My heart is sold, and it won't listen to the ratiocination of my brain. It's like Sarah Palin is controlling me with radio waves; history and logic do not matter. My heart enlists my stomach to attack me with that non-negotiable deep-pit sensation, and then I'm cooked. I have gotten as far as the 6-train, even as far as Houston, before succumbing to this lunar madness and repairing to my apartment for reconnaissance.
I have a theory on this disorder: that my thinning hair is the, ahem, root cause of my OCD. Because the uber-traumatising condition of hair-loss is something that's out of my hands (and scalp), I've fixated on matters I can, well, control.
If only my stove had the 'shining'. Then I'd always know for sure. Unfortunately the only thing around here 'shining' is my scalp.
(Art by Modern Bald Man.)
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