In honour of Canadian Thanksgiving which was celebrated yesterday I have an admission to share with you. My acute sense of smell failed me. As I entered the Air Canada Maple Leaf Lounge in Vancouver I would have sworn on an organic turkey breast -- cooked to an internal temperature of 74°C (165°F) to prevent foodborne illness -- that I smelled Cream of Mushroom Soup. Alas, it was Cream of Chicken. Oh well, Bed Bug Sniffing dogs are only 96% accurate as well. Here's proof.
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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