What possesses us?

What possesses us to take every measure making sure that we don't allow the calculator on the gas pump to surpass a round number? How many out there feel a tinge of disappointment when it reads $10.01 instead of $10? One day I decided enough was enough. I purposely let $10.03 worth of gas run into my tank. It felt good. I need to settle down about such fetishes, cuz "Who really gives a damn?"

Yesterday I had another "What possesses us?" moment. I came into the house and did my customary check for telephone messages. The voice on answering machine message No. 5 said, "Marianne, I have some stuff prepared for you (it was information for an upcoming writing assignment), and I have to stop by Coldwater Creek to drop some other materials off. I wondered if you'd be home and I can bring your information to your house."

"Oh, Gawd," I thought. "I haven't cleaned my house, and crud has blown all over my nice lawn." I picked up the phone, dialed her number and still didn't know what to tell her while allowing just four rings to pass. That was enough, I figured. I could say I tried to call her back. She wouldn't come after all, pressing me to to explain why my house is dirty and the lawn looks so grungy.

Actually, there was no way this visitor was going to do such a thing, but in my obsessed mind, I was sure she'd be noticing the dust all over the living room bookcase shelves, the pile of two weeks' worth of mail and other asundries scattered across the kitchen island, the dog hair on the two carpet runners leading to the back door, all those leaves messing up my beautiful lawn. She would see it all, and she would go back to report to her rich friends that Marianne Love lives in squallor.

Then, it got worse. SHE MAY COME even if I don't call her back to tell her I'm not ready for company today because I've been doing other more important outside chores, keeping me away from cleaning my house, and because I don't want to have to explain that I usually don't live like a pig. My luck, for sure, she'll come. I have no choice, I thought. Better not waste one minute.

Straight to the utility room closet I marched. Out came the vacuum cleaner. Since the dog hair at the entrance to the house would leave a weighty first impression, I directed that cleaner straight to the garage where the Kiwi and Annie live and vacuumed up a storm. Then, into the house with the hurry-up offense through the kitchen, dining area and living room. Better clean that bathroom; she might want to use the facility, I thought. Slam that shower door so she doesn't see the ring around the tub. Wipe all those water marks and toothpaste explosions off the mirror. Clean that toilet bowl. Get that living room dusted and straighten out those quilts on the couches.

Oh, and there's that heap of clothes dribbling off the dryer top. Better throw all that mail on the kitchen island into a box and stuff it in a closet. Dry those dishes in the sink and do a once over on the counter tops, etc. The whole process took about 20 minutes, but there were still leaves and limbs strewn all over the lawn. Maybe she won't notice that when she drives in, I rationalized.

Then, I felt emboldened. Now, I can call her back and let it ring as many times as it takes for her to answer. So, I did. I even told her how stupid I'd been, cleaning the house, before allowing her to know that it was okay to come. She said she was glad that she'd inspired me to clean my house cuz hers sure was a mess, as was her office.

"When do you plan to stop by?" I asked.

"After lunch," she said. "Probably about 1 or 1:30."

It was 10:45. I had raced around like a mad woman, obsessively cleaning every obvious household blight in record time, only to learn she wouldn't come this way for more than two hours. How silly, I thought. Why DO we make idiots out of ourselves in fear that someone will come to our homes and learn that we're slobs just like everyone else?

Taking a deep breath, I settled down, figuring she probably wasn't going to take notes anyway but also figuring the added time would give me plenty of opportunity to clean up all those leaves and limbs in the yard. Then, she could come and see that I really am not the pig I appear to be all the rest of the time when nobody comes to visit.

She came. She never once walked into the house. She stayed for more than an hour and sat with me in the shade where all those leaves had so recently tarnished my beautiful yard. She thought the place was lovely and even asked me if I'd mowed the lawn in the interim between our earlier telephone conversation and the present moment.

"No," I said, but it certainly needs a trim.

She brought no notebook to jot down dirt details, but simply sat back in her chair, kicked off her shoes and seemed perfectly happy that she'd invited herself out. And, I sat back, enjoyed her company and seemed perfectly happy that she never got a chance to see the real us.

What she saw was the instantly-cleaned up version of the Lovestead, and because of that, I could live for another day with the peace of mind that one more person doesn't know I'm really a slob at heart. Maybe some day, I'll do just like I did at the gas pump, and let it all hang out. But that's gonna take some real self-discipline.