I scrolled upon Britchida’s pie chart painting of mistakes/ being the kind of person who makes mistakes.
The creator, Brit, would like to get to the point where the worst part of making a mistake is just the mistake itself. I would dare to say - making the mistake - could very likely and often is (for me) the best part.
Perfectionism shaped me early on. Those who know me - would be like really? You?
My feral hair, ripped jeans and perma-floordrobe might lead one to think I don’t have any standards at all; and yet - I grew up with my very special own brew of perfectionism. A sort of meticulous torture you keep to yourself, in deep places and shadowed by the dark of the night.
Today as I study for a Personal Training Certification, deep in note card making, I am reminded of a time in college dormitories, late nineties. Kutztown, PA. I was terrified to have actually made it to college, I felt like I accidentally accessed some working-class cheat code, but how the hell was I going to pull it off? How long before the mysterious THEY figure out I don’t belong in college? Through all the self-doubt I managed to feed a fire so strong - to not only get through college - but to excel while doing so. This meant studying every day, and pretty much every night. While my roommate left the dorm with a crew of gal-pals, I cracked open another pack of Office Max notecards.
I made notecards for everything. Things that were probably common knowledge to most, I still made a notecard. And - I would remake any notecard with a slight imperfection. I would say most nights I got into a great groove. A perfect penmanship machine - ripping out notecard after notecard.
And sometimes, late in the night - I would slip up. I would get caught in a downward spiral. And I would look back at finished cards with more critical eyes. NOTHING was good enough. I would start re-making notecards that originally passed the perfection test. It got worse and worse until I was a sloppy puddle on the floor.
One night, in deep desperation, a voice called to me from deep inside. “What if messy notecards were okay?” “What if we intentionally made some messy cards - wouldn’t that be fun?” A part of me, even if a quiet one, knew to speak up to catch the attention of my slowly brewing inner wild rebellion.
I listened, scribbled up some notecards and then scribbled a poem about my new imperfect process before falling asleep.
Perfectionism, it bubbles up from time to time but I fight it like I fight capitalism, the patriarchy and aprons. If I am not paying attention I can get tangled in its grips AND I may never figure out why. I know at my core -I don’t even like the aesthetic of perfection. The smooth and shiny sheen of AI makes me nauseous. I have always preferred crooked wiggly lines, and just love when color bleeds in and out of said lines. I enjoy my music noisy, scratchy and then sweet and clean when you don’t expect it. It wasn’t long ago that I tried (and failed) making oil-stained clothing cool.
And even considering me — messy me — I change my mind, and my preferences all the damn time. Figuring this — this — LIFE THING — out, perfecting it even? Ha! Not for me, bruh. And mistakes? I am here to make them. Sometimes I learn something new, and sometimes I get skunked. But most of the time - I am enjoying the sloppiness of being perfectly human.
We are perfect in our imperfection. You are so right that in our mistakes is where we grow. So well written. Thanks!