November28
I saw a naturpoath the other day. A naturopath is a doctor who doctors naturopathically. You see, they take nature, is what it is, and they take it down a path, basically. The ithically part is just some scientific nonsense we don’t need to understand. Science is for people who don’t have TiVo.
So I’m there, with this naturopath – who I like very much the moment we meet because she speaks to me as though we will soon be old friends which I find an enormous comfort – and she asks me to mark down a timeline of events in my life. We’re trying to put a pin in my chronic headaches, is what we’re trying to do, and that takes figuring out kind of when they sort of started, as best we can. I begin this time line in 1993 when I am 24 and my mother has just died. I then carry on to present day, marking major events in my life and when I get to the children I cannot remember how old I was when I had them. I go back and forth with something like…
i was 31 when I had Jacob. no 32. wait no. can’t be. must have been 31. or 57. or 13. i was fiftyseventythirteen!
And she says, it doesn’t matter. Specifics don’t matter. Just the general idea. Only I camnot let it go. I need to know. I cannot write down a number to correspond with the time I issued forth each child if that number is off by even a few hours. I cannot suggest that I was 33 years 4 months 17 days and 9 hours old if I was in fact 33y 4m 17d and 8.5 hours old. I am a perfectionist, I tell her, I must be perfect!
Scribble scribble on my chart.
Only thing is, my perfectionism falls more in the category of sort of perfect when I feel like it. I am a lazy perfectionist, I tell her. I don’t like to do a thing unless I can do it absolutely right. This means I don’t do a lot because unlike your traditional perfectionists, I know my limits. I’m not gonna run around all being perfect and losing my mind 24/7. Nah. I limit myself. I put a cap on the perfectionism. Which makes me a perfect perfectionist. I’ve got ‘em all beat.
I’d like to feel guilty about needing to be perfect, but I don’t. What I don’t get is half assed lazers. People who don’t care if anything is ever done well. People who can go into a room and write down a timeline with nothing resembling accuracy. People who can do this and still live with themselves. What is the purpose of a timeline if you take no care in preserving the accuracy of time long the line?
Define anarchy!
I say we give a shout out to the perfectionists because without us socks would be thrown willy nilly in he drawer, pillows would be chucked on the sofa without a care for alignment and symmetry, dinner plates wouldn’t match at dinner and the cans in the pantry would be sorted according to the order they were taken out of the grocery bag rather than according to contents, size of can, alphabetical placement and popularity. This is a world none of us ants to live in. This is a world in which no human being could rationally survive. It is a world where timelines are random markings on paper signifying nothing. Perfectionists might be annoying but come on, you’re grateful for us. No one wants to live with random markings on paper signifying nothing. No one.
Therefore, I make no excuses. I am a perfectionist and damned proud. You will never come into my home and find the soap dish anything but perfectly aligned with the sink so that is is both aesthetically pleasing but also as functional as can possibly be. When I invite you to dinner you will enjoy previewing your meal in stunning menu for on the beautifully set table because we are civilized people. I’m perfect (if lazy) and I’m proud.
And fair warning: if I ever ask you to do something for me I suggest you do it well. Or don’t do it at all. Be perfect or lazy. You cannot be both at once. Do it right or just don’t do it. Except, do it. I don’t suffer laziness in others well at all. Just ask Dan.
