So…  I’m kind of a perfectionist.

[I can hear the people who know me best, snorting and laughing.  My brother’s guffaws are loudest.  JUST SHUSH, BROTHER.  I KNOW.]

Really though, JUST KIND OF.  I’m kind of a perfectionist.

My brother’s laughter is not without warrant.  I used to be an over-the-top, anal retentive, angry, bossy, OCD, anxiety ridden, control freak perfectionist.  I’m not anymore.  [Seriously guys, really.]  

After years and years of driving myself into the dirt, setting personal goals to deliver the world and then feeling like a failure if I didn’t OVERdeliver the whole effing universe, hating myself for never living up to what I could be instead of what I AM, I got tired of it.

Sure, there are still things that I get clenchy about.

Like making my bed.  I can go from zero to bitchface in the same amount of time it takes a small child to jump into my halfway-made bed, which (I have found) is less than one second.  I like straight, tight sheets and covers, pillows plumped just right, cases clean and all facing the same direction.  Once the bed is made I don’t expect it to stay that way, but while I’m making it, BACK OFF.

I like my closet arranged “just so.”  I arrange all the shirts on matching hangers, facing the same direction, in order of sleeve length and sub-categorized by color, partially because it makes me happy, but also because I can tell simply by looking which shirts are in the laundry, and what color laundry needs to be done next.

Read More