Clean Hands, Dirty Mind

I was born with standards.

According to my mother, the first sign was a donut. I couldn’t even talk yet, but I’d take one bite, hold out my hands, and grunt until she wiped them clean. Bite. Grunt. Wipe. Repeat. Apparently, I did this after every bite.

By my first birthday, they had to physically shove my hand into the cake just to get a photo. The other babies looked adorable, covered in frosting. I looked like someone who had just witnessed a crime. (I argue I had.)

As I grew up, my standards evolved. Chips? Wipe fingers on pants. Every chip. My mom eventually trained me to wipe my fingers on my socks instead because, as she put it, “socks are cheaper than jeans.” That’s right — she developed a cost-effective cleaning strategy for my neurosis.

Even now, I can’t eat Cheetos without a napkin on standby. I’ll wipe between every piece like I’m prepping for surgery. Lotion is fine — lotion has purpose. But if it’s not supposed to be on my hands, it’s not staying.

This has lasted my entire life. Fast forward a few decades, and there I am — a grown woman making Rice Krispie treats. The butter-to-marshmallow ratio? Off. The stick factor? Catastrophic. Within seconds, my hands are glued in sugary chaos I. Could. Not. Get. Off. Panic. Tears. Breath short. Hyperventilating. Cue my mother — again — walking me to the sink to wash my hands like I’m three. I wish I were exaggerating.

It’s funny, though — I’ve realized that while I can’t stand physical mess, my mind loves the metaphorical kind. Emotional chaos? Relationship fallout? Existential goo? Bring it. I’ll dive in with both (clean) hands.

So, “Clean Hands, Dirty Mind” isn’t just a cute phrase. It’s my origin story. I was built for curiosity, creativity, and control — all at once. I might wipe after every chip, but I’ll also write the hell out of life’s sticky stuff. I'm probably writing with orange on my socks.