The new things which matter

I recently went round to a new friends house and realized I may have met my ideal. 
Not his personality, his looks, his astonishing nose or his predilection for slightly baggy assed Levis. Nope. I was smitten by his house. And specifically the cleanliness and order within his house.

I know. Its terrible what appeals as you get older.

As someone who grew up in a very small house populated by a father who saw every surface as a resting place for his clothes, keys, newspaper, ironing, screws, empty toilet rolls, plastic bags he was saving etc.- I loathe mess. It literally makes me itchy. The result? I grew up in love with the minimalist ideal. Give me a bare white room with minimal furniture, bare clean floors, everything tucked away out of sight and I was am practically orgasmic.
The reality of growing up – jackets hung on the back of chairs; mail unopened and unsorted; books opened flat with a cracking spine, piles of ironing on dining room chairs, CDs outside of their covers were all nails on a chalkboard to me. Add in a collection of mugs strewn around the house, 6 pairs of shoes and used tissues tucked everywhere and, well, I spent my childhood developing some serious anxiety issues. I can’t help it. I’m not OCD, I just can’t rest if there is mess. I can deal with unclean, but untidy makes me Nic Cage crazy.

And this guys house…. oh man…I think I came the moment I walked in the door.

No piles. No mess. Order reigned. Screw the personality, looks, character and sex appeal…with a house this tidy…I could get over the rest. 

It was a thing of beauty. From the living room to the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom (you know, just nosing around). Everything at the right angles, no fingerprints on the appliances, not a rice grain on the floor. Nothing askew. Cushions plumped. LPs organized. Art work level.

I could have laid down and taken a nap right there. In the appointed place of course.

Now I have friends who I know are neatfreaks. I even once knew a guy who folded his TP to a point and laid out his magazines in an arc, but he was a virgin at 34 and the whole thing smacked of too much time on his hands. I know this guy has many passions which take up his time, but his clear love of precision, order and balance in his home, his castle, were as comforting as a hug. Something tells me no plates get thrown in that house and you know for sure that nobody is picking up clothes from the floor first thing in the morning. He probably irons and folds them mid coitus.

Of course what this says about the man…who knows. He’s probably a fussy nut job who needs to shower before and after sex, wears a protective body condom and requires absolute silence in the sack.. but I say its a small price to pay for the anti mess. Ladies… I have his number.

And me? I’m sure that this points to some very strange psychosis that my therapist has yet to explore, but I just put it down to a history of living small and therefore needing to be tidy.
Or a love of discipline.
..but that’s a whole other issue.

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