So not only did you teach me about writing memoir, you also taught me about reading and thinking about how others write memoir. Thank you so much! Rebecca
Saturday, April 7, 2012
Being perfect is not the goal, being perfectly happy is better.
In the first decade of my marriage I learned that everything did not have to go my way, but often was his way or our way. Early marriage is the best practice for making relationships work. In those first years, I learned patience. If I thought the yard needed mowing on Friday afternoon, it did no good to nag Barry to get out the lawn mower. He did it in his time and when he was ready, not when I insisted it should be done. I admit, I fretted and fumed at times, but it was good for me.
He endured my perfectionism, but he didn’t like it. I wish I had realized then what I know now. Being perfect or doing everything perfectly is not the goal, being perfectly happy is a better goal.
I also had to learn that perfection does not guarantee success. In my family, growing up, when anything failed, someone was blamed. Nothing ever just happened. It was always someone at fault. As a child I dreaded doing something wrong and having it brought to the attention of my father. He didn't accept excuses. He didn't even listen to excuses.
My Boss Taught Me How to Accept My Mistakes
After my career as a teacher, I held a part time job as a secretery for a while. The computer had replaced typewriters everywhere. I had no idea when I took the job that I'd be filling out forms, in triplicate, day after day on an electric typewriter. To make matters worse, my desk sat directly in front of my boss's desk. She saw me pull out the forms and use the white-out over and over. Being a perfectionist, I hated making errors, but the stress of her watching me, knowing I was not a good typist, devastated me.
She amazed me when she never seemed upset with me or chastised me for a mistake. She was not nearly as hard on me as I was on myself. My boss, although exceedingly smart and holding a job as manager over around ten men, was not perfect herself and knew that I was not. She didn't feel guilty when she made mistakes, and she didn't expect me to beat myself up when something had to be done over.
I see that need of perfectionisn in others whom I love, and wish there was some way I could make them understand that no one cares as much as we think. We don't have to be the best sister or the best brother. We don't have to keep the cleanest house every single day. If someone comes in and the dishes are in the sink, don't worry about it. No where will we see a tombstone enscribed "She kept the cleanest house in the county."
It took me a long, long time to learn and accept that I will never be perfect and now, I don’t even want to be perfect. I’m sure Barry is looking down from that great golf course in the sky, and he is smiling. Because I wanted and needed perfection, I expected Barry to do things perfectly as well. Some of our worst arguments came from my pushing him to do something for an upcoming party at our house. When he followed my wishes, I criticized the way he did it. Why would he live with me for forty- five years? I guess because he loved me as I loved him.
Some of us mellow with age. While I am told I still have some irritating faults (only family can get away with saying such) I try to be more accepting of myself. Now, I can make do with my best, and it is far from perfect.
Do you expect too much of yourself sometimes? Do you put pressure on others to do what you want or expect them to always do it your way? Do you have any advice for those who are perfectionists?
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