Cheese should smell like cheese. Gym bags, on the other hand, should never smell like cheese. In a little side street on the Left Bank in Paris I discovered this most adorable little cheese shop. With the most amazing goat cheese I have ever savoured. Top honours also go to their cheesecake. And to the Cheese Man. If only I could remember the name of the shop. At the very least I know how to get there.
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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