I'm a Nose-Picker

I'll bet you think I'm going to explain that title away with some clever pun or story. I'm not. I'm a nose-picker "for real."

I didn't ever pick my nose until high-school. I'm not sure when it started or why. Well, I guess the why is because I became very sensitive to having anything poky IN my nostrils. I can't stand the feeling of something in there, it seems alien.

I'm not a pick-my-nose-in-front-of-a-crowd sort of picker, and also not a shirt-wiper (unless I'm en route to throw the shirt in the wash).

I have known which of my relationships were "good" ones by the fact that my significant other was ok with the knowledge of my pickitude.

Sorry Mom, I'm sure you're horrified, but you can rest in the fact that it wasn't bad parenting that caused me to have such a disgusting habit. I'm also pretty sure I didn't get it from my Dad, while I do fuzzily recall him "cleaning" with a pinkie once or twice, I wasn't living at home when I took it up.

Sign me up for NPA, "I'm Reese, and I'm a Picker."