In the lovely Presidio, an area of San Francisco bundled high in the hills, you're less likely to see unwashed trinkets on the street. Having said that, my brother and I trekked up a steep 90-degree hill only to stumble upon a filthy pair of underwear wrapped in a ski jacket. As HH's correspondents we were thrilled at the sight of matter-out-of-place. Zach warned, "Eww, disgusting. Don't get too close!!!" I replied, "When it comes to capturing hygiene mishaps our job is to be bold, not wimpy. So here hold my purse." With that, I leaned in to snap this photo. Some say, "You're never fully dressed without a smile." HH and her children say "If you're undergarments aren't clean, or worse, dirty and left on a curbside for all to see, your smile can't save you."
Three verifiable things about me. One. I am an only child. The concept of sharing, therefore, is foreign to me. Two. I am a Virgo. The sign regarded as a perfectionist. Three. My mother raised me to be meticulously clean; compulsively tidy. According to my mother, "You have taken this clean thing way too far." I disagree. Apologies to my mother.
Nature or nurture? Who knows? Who cares? I have not been diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Nor would I label myself a Cleanaholic. Or a Germaphobe. My world though, is definitely a unique place. One where doors open magically. Hotel mattresses are pristine. And estheticians never double dip.
I live in this world without a bubble or a honeycomb mask. About 15 years ago I got tired of catching the flu du jour and became ever more so hygienically vigilant -- perhaps obsessively so.
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