But I haven't moved so far into crazy town that I don't realize that a lot of that was my own fault. I can complain about all the food I had to cook for my family (who I love, really I do), but who asked me to cook so much? Yeah, I had to feed people, but I could have pulled out the lunch meat or thrown hamburgers on the grill instead of trying to impress with crab-stuffed cod and homemade rolls. I spent hours on the music for the slideshow, but I could have just found a nice instrumental piece and made it work instead of searching for the ultimate funeral music. I could have just appreciated that my towels were clean and not cringed over the fact that they are now a different shade.
Why do I obsess over making everything so perfect? I wasn't always this way. I used to be semi-normal (I know, hard to believe, isn't it?) So let's psychoanalyze my need for perfection. Hmmmm. This could take many, many blog posts, so let's start with just one possibility.
Did it start with the "You could be so pretty if"'s my mom used to throw at me. You know the ones--"You could be so pretty if you'd only pull your hair off your face," or "You could be so pretty if you'd only dress nicer," which leaves you with the only possible deduction--I'm not so pretty now. I need to try harder, up my game.
Moms aren't the only ones who use this phrase. Dads-guilty. Boyfriends-guilty. Sisters, best friends, strangers in line at Dunkin' Donuts-guilty, guilty, guilty. Everybody thinks they have the magic secret to what's keeping you from being so pretty.
I never got the you-could-be-so-pretty-if-you'd-only lose a few pounds, exercise more, stop eating, bleach your mustache, get highlights, have a nose-job, or change sexes, but I know people who did. I'm sure I've said a form of those dreaded words to my own daughters and shame on me. My daughters are beautiful as they are and they don't need to change a thing.
Now that I'm a mom, I know that my mother wasn't trying to be cruel or make me feel bad--she just wanted me to be the best I could be and to her eyes, I wasn't using all my potential in the looks department. She was probably right. I probably would have been prettier without scraggly hair falling over my face, but I wasn't confident enough to believe that and the scraggly hair made me feel less vulnerable. It was my invisibility cloak. Of course, it didn't make me invisible, it just made me look like Cousin It from The Addams Family, but to my puberty-stricken mind, it was a place to hide.
My ill-fitting clothes hid the body that was all strange lumps and bumps and odd angles. Once I hit seventeen and the bumps moved to the right areas, I no longer hid them in baggy shirts and pants. I had a few good years of showing off those bumps until I had four children and now I'm wearing anything that would camouflage an army tank in battle.
I see young women now who throw on a hoodie and a pair of wrinkled sweats, finger comb their hair, and they are out the door. I want to run up to them screaming, "You are wasting the very small window of attractiveness you have been given. Do you think anyone is going to want to see you in a tank top in ten years? You're past the gangly stage and headed straight for the even my wrinkles have wrinkles stage! Strut it while you've got it, girl!" But of course I don't because that would be crazy and wrong. So wrong. So very wrong.
My mom passed in 1991 and I loved her dearly. She was my biggest fan and for some reason, she thought I should be a movie star. She started telling me that when I was just a little girl and continued until I got married and had kids. I guess she gave up on the idea at that point.
I have no idea why she thought I would make a good movie star. I think maybe it was because I liked Shirley Temple movies and I had curly hair ( I couldn't dance or sing and I didn't have the skills to be an ambassador, but she didn't let that get in the way). I had never shown any interest in acting or performing, I had never shown any skill for it either. I didn't have some mysterious "it factor" that drew people in. I was just a shy, awkward little blonde kid whose mother had big dreams.
She even talked me into signing up for a drama class in college by convincing me I could work behind the scenes. I did it to make her happy and then on the first day, I found out everyone in the class had to audition for the plays. What? I just wanted to paint scenery and get a free ticket to the show. I did the audition and won the role of one of the main characters. Life can be so cruel sometimes.
I went on to enjoy acting and to have roles in a bunch more plays during college and even had a role in a TV commercial, but I never tried to be a movie star. That was her dream for me, not mine. I can admit though, that if she hadn't seen something in me that I didn't, I would never have signed up for drama class and had the experiences that I had. So I guess her gentle little nudges didn't make me psychotic, just less shy and less hairy.
In my next post, I'll explore Possibility #2 in the search for the reason I can't say, "Make yourself a sandwich. If you need me, I'll be taking a nap."
"I had a few good years of showing off those bumps until I had four children and now I'm wearing anything that would camouflage an army tank in battle."
ReplyDeleteYou mean I'm not the only one trying to lose those last few post-pregnancy pounds? (my "baby" graduated from college 11 months ago...)
So much of this resonates with me!
ReplyDeleteMy father never got over his disappointment that I didn't turn out to be a doctor or nuclear physicist, or, failing those, at the very least a multi-lingual (as in eight languages instead of two plus a few odds & ends), five-star professor. I often feel my kids aren't making the most of their potential, but I remember my father and do my best not to pass on my dissatisfaction. And in fact, they are accomplished young women.
It's tough being a perfectionist with high standards! I can cook a well-balanced meal, then whip the kitchen into shape in very little time. My husband will prepare the same meal in twice the time, generating three times the mess. He cannot tidy up as he cooks. If I leave the clean up to him, I'm always irritated to find the milk left out overnight, vegetables not put back in the fridge, etc. The only way to deal with this is to lower your standards. Not easy.
Eeek -- that should be *If I leave the 'cleaning' up to him.
ReplyDeleteSee? Perfectionist tendencies.
Anne, I wouldn't have any weight issues at all if only food didn't taste so good! :) I read these dystopia novels where they only ingest nutrient packets and I think, "I would totally cut that packet open, add some garlic and fresh herbs, and use it as marinade for a nice tenderloin." I'd be thrown into dystopia prison in no time.
ReplyDeleteMary, it's hard to live with parental disappointment. I discovered my love of writing in second grade and writing was always part of my life, but I didn't start writing for publication until after my mom had passed away. I regret that. I'm not a movie star, but I think my mom would have been pleased with me being an author.
The hardest part of being a perfectionist for me is my family can't see what isn't perfect until I point it out to them. That sounds weird, but my husband can straighten a room and I can ask him, "Does anything look out of place to you?" and he'll say no. Then I re-straighten it and he says, "Oh, yeah, that looks much better." I hope my girls have high standards, but not impossible ones that make them crazy.
My husband is good about helping to clean up the kitchen, but he does forget to put stuff back in the fridge a lot. He likes a late night snack of bread and jelly chased down with some milk and we find the jelly or the milk on the counter the next morning quite often. For everyday life, I've learned to relax my standards and if the sink isn't full of dirty dishes, I'm happy, even if the counters are a bit sticky. But when I'm throwing a party or having guests, I'm a total terror. After I've spent three weeks planning and two days cooking and the only thing I ask you to do is run to the store to pick up baking soda, if you come back with baking powder, you'd be better off not coming back at all. : )
When I was a kid my ears were a bit big for my head! My grandmother *hated* when I wore my hair in a ponytail as it showed off my ears, and its only in recent years that I'll put my hair in a ponytail. It just shows the power of words! And just like your Mum, she was just trying to encourage me to 'make the best of myself'.
ReplyDeleteI've no doubt your mum would have been very proud of your writing. I always enjoy your posts.
Hey, Aine, thanks for the comment and for following my crazy blog. Isn't it funny how little things like that stick with us so many years later? For instance, there was one Christmas when money was tight and my mom bought a pack of Barbie outfits for me and wrapped each one separately so I would have more gifts to open. I thought I was being so smart and observant when I told her I knew they had all been part of one pack, but of course, that made her feel bad. She probably forgot it soon after, but I still feel a sense of shame about it and it's been forty some years.
ReplyDeleteMakes me wonder what little comments will stick with my daughters--ones I didn't think much about at the time and have forgotten about since.
Thanks for saying my mom would be proud. I think she would like my writing and I know she would be proud of my girls and the way they have turned out. I like to think I had a small part in that. : )
Judy
Crazy Town, USA. I thought I lived there!
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