This sentence, a quote from Kathleen Norris, who writes movingly in many books of grappling with perfectionism and her spiritual journey, was to be the title of one of the sections in my upcoming memoir, I Am Not A Juvenile Delinquent, about my similar struggles. But I had to cut it when my editor suggested that three sections would work better than the five I’d originally had. As usual, she was correct.
But its personal resonance has never left me; this morning during a very challenging zoom yoga class with a new teacher, its noisy dictates blared back to me as I struggled to get the unfamiliar poses exactly right. As I write this I of course see what a ridiculous expectation that was—almost as ridiculous as thinking I can find a way to flawlessly execute the test this coronavirus siege presents me with.
And then the digital copy of my memoir arrived, with a raft of technological bells and whistles like a new language I had to learn, plus a design element that felt wrong to me. It’s the last time I’ll get to go through the whole thing and I’m afraid I’ll mess it up, having to utilize these unfamiliar and confusing tools to make corrections. But at least it’s a project with a beginning, middle and end, unlike the pandemic we are living through.
I can cope with that. My zeal for getting things right will be a plus in that endeavor.
But how does a perfectionist deal with the upheaval that’s happening now in our world? I guess the first challenge is clear: to strive not to be a perfectionist. According to a recent article in the New York Times, I could use this time to become non-productive. Non-productive! I think doing nothing might be harder for me to master than the technical tasks I have to figure out to review my book. As soon as I wake up in the morning I make a mental list of the tasks for the day. Time to do laundry, change the sheets, clean out the vegetable drawers, respond to and delete hundreds of emails, do yoga, get my ten thousand steps, text my grandsons, revise poems from residency, review the book, write this blog.
There are always more things to do than can fit into one day.
I think I should have a routine that I stick to, and don’t get “tossed away” by news alerts, a writer friend’s new book that arrived in the mail that I’d just love to begin reading, Facebook and Instagram posts, the political jokes and junk mail that crowd my inbox, invitations to buy new clothes I’d have no place to wear, yet another Trump insanity. But I do—get tossed away, I mean. I read the posts. I order a new Everlane sweater. I get caught in outrage at how this selfish, deranged, narcissistic president is using what should be a time to reassure the country with truth and comfort to blather and bluster about being number one on Facebook, how his ratings are better than those of “The Bachelor” (whatever that is), and how governors should suck up to him if they want PPE.
I no longer say to my husband, “How can this be happening?” because I know why. He (Trump, not my husband) is incapable of doing anything else than what he’s doing. But my outrage persists, fed by the daily information overload. By the death tallies that could be less if he had acted sooner. By the governors having to flatter and cajole this man-child to get the help their states need. By the lines of Wisconsin residents risking their lives to vote and the Republican courts that forced them to do so.
A good perfectionist should either turn it off, or master it all, right? And definitely not be angry about it so much.
I stay angry and don’t do either, stuck in the paradox of needing to know what is happening, and wanting to push it all away.
And I’m angry that I’m angry. A perfectionist shouldn’t be. I should be calm and centered and clear, using meditation and yoga, a mind and heart balanced by those practices. I should wholeheartedly be wishing health, peace and happiness to all beings, including Trump and his toadies, words I mouth in my morning meditation. I should be more unselfish, more grateful at my good fortune in the face of so many suffering.
Notice all the shoulds?
So what else can I do to get through this time in a faultless way? I want to help somehow; I long to do some volunteer work, so I look at Connecticut’s website listing possibilities, of which there are many. But people over sixty, and I am well over that age, are not wanted. Too risky for us to be out in the world. I have no sewing skills to make masks, so contributing money to food banks, Planned Parenthood, artist relief funds, and Democratic campaigns will have to take the place of volunteering.
But it just doesn’t seem like enough.
When I was quarantined for fourteen days, I knew exactly what to do. I made the recommended Clorox/water solution and sprayed everything down with it. I opened the toaster oven, refrigerator and microwave with a paper towel in my hand, turned on the faucets that way too. I tried not to pet our dog or get within six feet of my husband. We even ate six feet apart, and I cloroxed our napkin rings after meals, leaving him to put the dishes in the dishwasher. I washed my hands so much my skin was raw. I only left the house to go for a walk each day. We slept in separate beds.
A perfectionist loves rules, and there were so many to follow. It was easier to feel okay about each day. I was doing something. I had control.
Ha.
Here it comes again, another FGO (f….ing growth opportunity if you don’t know that wonderful phrase). Of course I didn’t have control, of course I never do, I never have. Isn’t this pandemic teaching me that again? Sure, it helps to have order in my life, dishes put away, a pot of fragrant soup on the stove, sweaters stacked neatly on closet shelves, today’s emails answered or deleted. Sure, it’s okay to feel okay.
For today.
For tomorrow, the unknown. Yes, when I let myself think about it, I’m scared of getting the virus, of not being able to breathe and maybe having to choose between a ventilator or just high-flow oxygen, the newest Sophie’s choice. Of there not being a hospital bed. Of my husband or my son getting it. Of them dying. Of me dying.
What does this perfectionist do about those thoughts?
She goes for a walk, which is what I’m going to do right now, rain or no rain.