I'm Just A Girl Who Can't Say No

     I wonder if there is a 12-step program for people like me. We could call it Over-Committors Anonymous. OCA--I like it. We could decide as a group what our posters should look like and the first step in our recovery would be NOT volunteering to make them.

     I have a serious problem with this. First of all, I should have had my daughters teach me to say, "NO" when they were two years old and so good at it. I can't seem to make my mouth form that little one syllable word. Everyone from loan officers to sales clerks have no difficulty saying it to me, but the only time I seem to be able to say it is if the question starts, "Would you mind..."

     No matter how busy my schedule is, no matter how many things I'm trying to juggle, no matter how much I don't want to do the chore, I end up agreeing because I don't want to disappoint anyone in my life. Teachers, neighbors, family, and friends, all know that all they have to do is ask. And the sickest part is, there are people in my life who only call when they need something. The same person who is now asking me to spend two weeks on a slide presentation couldn't find five minutes in their schedule to call after my surgery or the death of one of my loved ones, but I still find myself saying, "Sure. Great. When do you need it by?" I'm thinking of having SUCKER tattooed on my forehead since I'm a strong believer in truth in advertising.

     But that's only the first part of the problem. Once I've said yes, whatever I've agreed to do has to be the biggest, best, most amazing version they've ever seen or at least I'll practically kill myself trying to make it that good.  Ask me for centerpieces with balloons and ribbons and I'll give you centerpieces with not only balloons and ribbons, but also glitter, flashing lights, and hand-painted bases that play your favorite song. Ask me to put some photos into a brief slideshow and those slides will have opening credits, closing credits, fade to blacks, cropping, transitions, and emotionally-charged music to accompany their progress across the screen. If asked to come up with a gift for someone, I can't just pick a gift card or a nice pair of gloves--I have to scour the internet and the local malls for the be-all, end-all gift that will make the recipient laugh, cry, and refuse all future gifts so as not to tarnish the memory of this gift.

     I really should be medicated.

     The people who suffer the most because of my affliction are my husband and children. Besides the lack of clean laundry and hot meals during my focus on a project, there comes a point when I have reached the sheer panic stage of the process and realize that now that I've hand-painted an inscription on 150 fire truck ornaments, there is no way I'm going to get all of them boxed and then wrapped in the two  shades of paper I've carefully chosen (with hand-curled co-ordinating ribbon to finish them off) in time for the event. That's when I drag my loved ones into the assembly line armed with scissors and rolls of tape. Trust me when I tell you that three hours before the favors need to be on the tables at the party, I am not forgiving of sloppy work or bathroom breaks, and your cell phone had better be turned off. It's a miracle that my children still speak to me. It's an even bigger miracle that they haven't taken me to court over child labor laws.

     Once the project is one hundred percent finished, whether it is favors, centerpieces, baked goods, or floral arrangements, my husband steps in to do his part of the job--load them into the car while I take a five minute shower and attempt to look presentable for the event. This is where the real miracle comes in because if miracles didn't exist, we would have gotten divorced over this long ago. I can spend hours on baked goods, days on centerpieces, weeks on favors, obsessing over getting each and every one to look exactly the way I want them to look, and then my husband, not wanting to waste time making extra trips, piles them all on top of each other and tripping over pets and bumping into doorways, dumps them into the back of the car. I mean I can see his point--it would take five more precious minutes to put the objects I've spent months making for his family into the car carefully and who has five minutes to spare these days? You know I love him because I haven't killed him. Yet.

     I am like the alcoholic who wakes up in a strange bed after a particularly bad night of boozing, wearing nothing but a dog collar, and having no idea how he got there or if he owns a dog. He swears he will never touch alcohol again and he honestly has good intentions, but a few days later, he finds himself trying to figure out why he has woken up with Justin Bieber's face tattooed on his backside. Every time I get in over my head on one of these projects, I promise myself and my family that I will stop agreeing to do them, and yet . . . the phone rings, someone makes a request, and I tell myself, "Just this one last time," or "I can't say no to her after all these years of friendship," or "This can't even be considered a real project since it'll only take a week or two," and I've fallen off the wagon. Again.

     The people I do these things for are always very grateful and complimentary. I've been told I should be a caterer, a party planner, a chef, an interior decorator, and a full-time artist. That's sweet to hear, but what I want to be is a writer, and it's inconvenient, but in order to be a writer, one must find time to actually--write. So I need a support group to teach me how to say very clearly and often, "I'm sorry. I would love to help you out, but I just don't have time right now. I'm at a critical point in my plot, my characters lack the depth I'm striving for, and the pacing drags around chapter four. I also need to send queries on my finished manuscript and that involves networking and research. But perhaps we could make a trade--I'll make your favors for you and you do my shopping, cooking, laundry, and cleaning during the two weeks I'm working on the favors. That way, I'll have some time left over for working on what's important to me--my writing." I can imagine the response to that--"Um, uh, never mind, I'll, um, uh, find someone else." Someday, I'm going to actually say it instead of just imagining it.

     It took time to get to this stage of over-committment and it's going to take time to change my habits. I tried to go cold turkey once, saying no to every request made of me, but I got the shakes and started having hallucinations of favor boxes with improperly curled ribbon sitting on banquet tables all over the world, so I took on enough new projects to stop the withdrawal symptoms.

     I can do this, though, I know I can. I'll go through my house room by room, craft drawer by craft drawer and pour all the glue, paint, and dye down the drain. I'll box up all my ribbon and bows and give them to charity. I won't allow myself to even drive by a craft store for the next six months. I'll focus on positive visualization of my home without piles of some other person's slides, without tables covered in tulle and ribbon, without drips of hot glue hardened on the floor, and with hot meals, clean laundry, and yes, a completed manuscript.

     I've admitted I have a problem. On to Step Two.