Picky, Picky

As a general rule, I am fairly easy going. I don't have a lot of preferences for myself and I try very hard not to project onto others.
So imagine my surprise when by 11 a.m. this morning, I had two spats of pickiness.

The first occurred when my husband came home from work. He handed me a pack of report covers he'd purchased for me while he was in town.

They were rolled up.

I gave them back. "I can't use these," I said.

"Why not?"

"They're not flat and pristine. I am not putting my papers in something that will roll back up," I told him.

He looked at me like I was crazy, but I have a real thing about my office supplies. My notebooks have to be carried home gingerly, because if the paper gets a little crimped or the cover gets bent, as far as I am concerned, it's trash. Or it might as well be, because I certainly won't use it.

Apparently, I have managed to keep this little quirk to myself fairly well.

My other picky thing is my feet.

I am not a fan of feet. I hate to go barefoot. I dislike looking at my tootsies. And I despise getting anything at all on my feet.

So imagine my dismay when, long after the sun was up, I slipped on a pair of clogs and went outside to toss some things in the compost pile, and found the grass was wet.

The dew got on my dainty little feet. My heels were wet. I couldn't stand it.

I had to come in and wash my feet off, and once dried, I put on my socks and sneakers to ensure that those feet did not come into contact with anything else today.

Picky me.