The doctor's cuckoo for the perfect outfit

I sometimes wonder if I might have a touch of OCD. Seriously. The people who know and love (and are sometimes highly annoyed with) me don't wonder this; they, indeed, know it to be a fact. My little case of obsessiveness manifests itself most prominently in one aspect of my life: namely, answering the question of what to wear. And although it sounds a bit like a joke, and, let's face it, it really can be, sometimes it's just very frustrating. Less than three weeks ago I spent two mornings in a row nearly in tears because after putting on and then tearing off half of my closet, I still felt like I didn't have that perfect outfit to wear and was reduced to boring mediocrity. On both occasions I arrived at work an hour later than normal. Keep in mind, people, that I only live fifteen minutes away from my office - my saving grace is flexi-time and approximately a billion hours of overtime saved up. Things have gotten better since then, thank god. I've done some shopping (losing weight had actually left some holes in the ole spring/summer wardrobe) and I've been really, really good about planning what I'm going the next day before I go to bed. That alone has been a huge help. But the whole thing makes me so mad at myself. It's such a superficial thing, and I know much of it has to do with my own securities about how I look (that's another month of posts in and of itself). And I'm also angry that I can't just accept this one thing about myself, that my brain has a bit of faulty wiring, and work with it instead of trying to fight it. So if you see the Doctor tripping over is today a black sweater or green t-shirt day, please don't judge her. She's not trying to be a fashionista bitch. She just didn't do her job of wardrobe planning the night before.