Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Anal Retentiveness, and Scarcity in the Time of Pandemic

Definite gaps in the paper goods aisle

As someone who has dealt with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder his whole life (which includes therapy and medication), as well as being someone who, years ago, was occasionally accused of being a hipster (I wasn’t, the jeans were too skinny for me), I was using hand sanitizer way before it was cool. Now, it’s like my favorite obscure band has gone mainstream, and I have to wait in line and pay more for concert tickets in order to stand next to some kid wearing the band shirt, but can still only name the hit single.

It was almost two weeks ago when I called my wife and asked her if she could pick up a refill jug of hand sanitizer, as we had run out earlier that day (my wife shares some of my obsessive compulsive tendencies along with a nice dose of hypochondria). She told that our local drugstore was cleaned out. I told her that it was fine. I was recovering from a relapse of the flu, and felt well enough to return the next day, and thus would be heading into town (i.e. Manhattan) and I would check the stores there. No luck.

My own brand

Still, I understand, given the rapid spread of the Coronavirus, and the conflicting information thereof. I would never dismiss people’s fears or their very reasonable impulses to be more cautious. Now I find myself doing what an increasing number of people are doing, making homemade concoctions with rubbing alcohol (or Everclear, as even rubbing alcohol has become scarce), aloe, and essential oils. It’s a little runnier, but actually it’s been quite nice on my hands, and the smell of the lavender is quite enchanting.

Then I heard about the run on toilet paper.

Yes, I previously stated that I believed myself to be ahead of the curve when it comes to hand sanitizer. On the other hand, though I have been doing it since shortly after birth, I have never considered myself to be on the avant-garde of defecation. To put it succinctly, I didn’t invent shit. So while I imagine that the scarcity of Purell can be partly blamed on a rush of new consumers, I simply do not believe the same can be said for toilet paper.

Or maybe I’m wrong. These are strange times and it takes more and more to surprise me. All of sudden this bizarre image comes to mind of a confused individual contemplating hygiene for the first time in years thinking: “Okay, they say that I need to wash my hands frequently and for at least twenty seconds. I read somewhere on Facebook that if you recite Lady Macbeth’s ‘Out, out damn spot’ speech in your head while lathering (of course not forgetting to scrub underneath the fingernails) that is just the right amount of time… Which one of my friends is such a theater geek that they remember that thing, and assumed that I would too? And… Oh my God, what is this putrid thing coming out of the hole underneath me. Nothing has ever come out of there before! That hole was for prostate massage only! I must get to Duane Reade quickly to get copious amounts of that “toilet tissue” that I have seen people buy, but never knew for myself its usefulness. I am so new to this, I don’t know what to get. Extra soft, or extra strong? Will there be someone there who can help me with that? And will I still be able to massage my prostate?”

Good Movie. If you're stuck in
quarantine, you should check it out.

And so on and so on. In my reverie, the inner monologue of this fictitious character eventually touches on the subjects of cybernetics, free jazz, Milky Way bars, and culminates in the sudden realization that the classic Rick Moranis / Dave Thomas movie Strange Brew was, in fact, based on Hamlet (“How had I not figured that out sooner?”).

Again, perhaps I should not make fun. We are still talking about basic human needs and fears. The bread aisle was empty yesterday as well, and I found nothing funny about that. Sure, there was the one guy who looked at me and said “This is just like a movie.”

And I suppose it is. There is something extremely unreal about all of this, particularly to those of us who have grown up in a place where every basic need could be found within walking distance in a ginormous, fluorescently lit, super modern mercantile. Hell, living in New York, I get pissed off if anything stupid little thing is somehow inaccessible at 3:30 in the morning. I know that I am spoiled in this capacity, even by American standards.

All of a sudden, we living here in what so many call the greatest city in the world (and not without a decent argument), find that for the first time in generations, even the relatively well-to-do are now worried about pestilence and scarcity. (Not the rich. I’m sure they’re doing just fucking fine.) There’s nothing funny about that. The reason no one can find hand sanitizer or toilet paper in New York is because people are scared of this thing they can’t see, and are being told that all they can do is wash their hands. And that makes us shit our pants.