I'm not OCD, but I play someone on TV who is.

This weekend, a dear friend of mine and his partner (neither of whom will quite know the extent of my insanity and paranoia until I successfully find and friend them on Facebook) are having a big party in Boston.  Originally there was talk of having me as an overnight guest, but then they surprised me by graciously insisting on putting me up in a nice nearby hotel room.

And you know what? I'm sitting in that room right this second,  looking out onto downtown Boston -- and I'm thoroughly enjoying being here.

You know -- as opposed to feeling germophobic and frightened that there's a giant bedbug under the mattress just waiting until I fall asleep tonight so that it can slide its paper-thin body into my wallet, steal all of my account numbers, and drain me of my blood and another $20,000.  

Nope.  Being here actually feels like a luxury -- as it should.

Sure, you could look at it as my now being so thoroughly brainwashed with the paranoia of bedbug adoption now that I don't even have to think about it  -- because it's become second nature to take precautions (the same way I try not to touch the pole when I'm on the subway) -- and you could ask yourself, what has become of her?   Does that mean the bedbugs have won the war (the psychological one?)  No, I don't think so.  How could it possibly mean that when I feel so calm and happy? When I'm finally just able to live my life again?

I won't lie, though.  My luggage is in the bathtub, and tomorrow morning my pajamas, in preparation for going straight into the washer for a scalding hot laundering, get double-bagged in plastic.  I'm not crazy.  Or I am -- depending on how you look at it.