From the series
by Richard G. Mills
Love Letters in the Sand
My mother used to enter my room from time to time and write with her
finger "Dust me" on the top of my dresser or my desk or the shelves that
held my ceramic dog collection -- or all of them. Not to say that I didn't
clean my room or wasn't a good housekeeper, but I didn't clean my room and
I wasn't a good house keeper. However, I was a young boy, and young boys
aren't supposed to clean their rooms or keep their houses.
But when I was a child, I cleaned like a child; now that I am a man, I
clean like a child. Well, at least, I used to blame my poor housekeeping
upon my general immaturity. But then I learned about perfectionistism.
One of the key concepts "they" apparently teach counselors (beyond one's
problems coming from one's parents and the likelihood that anyone with a
problem was probably molested as a child and in repression) is the concept
of being a perfectionist.
Being a perfectionist involves two self-defeating aspects: (1) you
can't be happy unless everything's perfect, and (2) if it can't be done
perfect (predicate adjective), it's better not to do it at all! Now,
anyone (anyone other than a perfectionist, that is) can see the major
defect in the first aspect. When was the last time you can remember when
everything was perfect? Come on, now. There's always something wrong!
I mean, if children aren't starving in Africa, the picture is hung
crooked in the living room. And that one section of wall paper doesn't
quite reach the ceiling. And your boss doesn't really appreciate you. And
if your boss does appreciate you, then that's a lot of pressure to be put
under -- always having to perform up to the expectations of your
appreciative boss! And the grass needs mowing; and, if you just mowed it,
it probably needs trimming; and, if you just trimmed it, it probably needs
mowing again.... or something. And if you actually get the picture
straight in the living room, well, there have to be children starving
somewhere -- just ask Sally Struthers. So you aren't happy because you're
a perfectionist. And so that's good, right? --Being perfect? Wanting to
be perfect? Wanting everything perfect?
"But didn't you start out talking about cleaning house?" you ask. To
which, I reply, "Yes." And that's the second (thank you for the segue!)
aspect, "if it can't be done perfect (predicate adjective, again), it's
better not to do it at all!" To the well adjusted individual, it reads,
"If it's worth doing at all, it's worth doing right." But to the
perfectionist, that's the same as saying, if it can't be done right, it
isn't worth doing.
"But didn't you start out talking about cleaning house?" you ask. To
which, I reply, "Yes." And that's just the point. If the cleaning can't
be done right, a perfectionist would feel, it would be better (that is,
less frustrating) not to do it at all. And so, when co-workers or friends
tell me that I'm so persnickety about what I do or how I look they can't
believe I could be as poor a housekeeper as they have heard me claim to be
or seen for themselves, they've totally missed the point. I want the page
perfectly typed and perfectly spaced, I don't want to be seen scuzzy in
public, and I don't clean house, all because I am a perfectionist.
When I lived in the City and was making a little (very little) money, I
tried using a maid service from time to time. I'm not at all like the
stereotype TV housewife who spends two days before the new maid gets there
cleaning house so the maid won't think they're slobs. If I'm paying for a
minimum of four hours' work, I expect a minimum of four hours' work!
Of course, the cleaning person certainly
didn't do anything perfectly. Unlike the housewife who spent two days
cleaning beforehand, I spent two days "cleaning" afterwards: fixing
the things the cleaning person had missed! But using a cleaning service
did save some time. -- All the basic things got done, and all that was
left was the perfectionist stuff! And at least the basics got done;
and it was o.k., because it wasn't me (or rather, I) who didn't do it
perfect!
But trying to do the whole job myself, well.... When you've dusted all
the bookcase shelves and table tops, there's always a big speck of lint
left somewhere -- and usually a little dust as well, at least there will be
by tomorrow. So it can't be done perfect; that is, to perfection. So why
do it at all?
And windows! I've just about given up on windows. It's nigh unto
impossible to get both sides of a pane of glass clean without leaving a
streak somewhere. I'm sure the average nonperfectionist could clean the
windows of an entire Chicago glass highrise before I could get both sides
of my patio door done.
But I don't have to feel guilty about it anymore. I am not a slob. I
am a perfectionist. And, if tables get a little dusty, well, I just take
my finger and write...
...in
the dust. And, eventually, when I have the time for perfection (or when
family or friends are expected the next day or in five minutes), I will.
Next
("
Those Autumn
Leaves...
Vrroommm-vrroommm!
")
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