The George V Paris is perfection personified. The staff. The weekly floral extravaganza in the lobby. The decor. The cleanliness. The attention to detail. My guess is this teeny-weeny interloper hid in the closet while housekeeping conducted their final room inspection prior to my check in. Then it flew onto the ceiling to observe my inspection. The bug is smaller than a grain of quinoa. Yes, I am that good.
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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