Aren't we amazing?

When I say "we" in the title of this post, I'm talking about all of us. Everyone reading this. And everyone else, too. When I ask, "Aren't we amazing?" I'm talking about the amazing way we all find ways to talk ourselves out of something, before we've even begun. Most times before we've even finished the thought of that something.

It goes something like this (this just happened to me, right before I sat down and logged into this blog account -- after avoiding it since January):

Me (thinking to myself): I need to be writing.

Me: Why do I suck at sticking with writing?

Me: I know it's so good for me. I know it's what I'm supposed to be doing. And I'm not doing it. Ever. Not even at work anymore.

Me: But I'm so tired from work (where I sit all day, by the way), I can't deal with getting back in front of the computer after work. I need to veg out. I need an escape. That's what the Kardashian's were made for. I need that.

Me: This is so lame. This is so weak. What a sad excuse for not writing. You're a sad excuse for a writer.

Me: F this. I'm going to write. Right now.

And here I am. Writing right this very moment! (I can hardly believe it myself.)

But even in the time between thinking, "I'm a sad excuse for a writer," and getting my laptop, I'd already started this little dialogue.

Me: Here I go again. "Starting up my blog again!" How many times have I blogged about this? How bored are people with reading that? How many eye rolls are these words going to get? I am a sad excuse for a writer.

But I still got online and am writing this, anyway. And the reason is not just because I'm trying to feel like less of a "sad excuse." It's also because I know, for sure, that I'm not the only one having these talks with myself. I guarantee my writer friends have almost the identical one. I know my other friends have a similar inner critic about their lack of time for doing things they love, like hanging up photos they've taken, planting that veggie garden they've been talking about, taking their dogs for enough walks. We all do it. We all are amazing at it.

Someone: I should take Comet for a walk. She looks so sad over there. Ugh, but I'm so tired. I need to relax.

Someone else: I should actually use my camera. I'm so happy when I'm being creative! Maybe I could get paid for it! What am I thinking? No one would pay me out of all the other photographers out there. Anyone can point and shoot a camera. Oh, "Family Guy" is on. Click. (And I'm not talking about the camera.)

My point here is not to be depressing, or to give a long dissertation about how we're amazing at being lame. My point is that yes, we are amazing at being lame. But that's normal. Even more amazing is when we let ourselves not be lame. And not worry about what's next. This is very hard for me, but I busted through tonight and put something down despite it all. Something that I think is important, and something that I think can help that tiny sputtering spark in all of us to ignite ... if just for a night. Or an afternoon.

Maybe this way, the gaps separating us from our dreams will narrow just a bit. Here and there. And maybe we'll keep watching reality TV and inappropriate cartoons. (OK, definitely I will.) But we'll know that there's always the next moment to act. Even if it's after your favorite Bravo lineup. It's there for the taking. So when you think about taking it, just take it. And when you are cool enough to take it, enjoy it. And don't wonder what's next.

Ouch ... dates don't lie. It's been six months. But I'm going to write this anyway.

Most people would be embarrassed to have started a blog, let it go for a few months, then started again ever so enthusiastically, only to once again let it go for even longer. Six months, to be exact. But strangely, not me.

I feel a little lame, of course. Actually, a lot lame. But I know this blog is a good idea, so here I am again, Feb. 20, 2010, a whopping six months since my last post, getting back on the horse again.

If that doesn't inspire you to go ahead and do that thing you've been avoiding for so long, well, maybe something else will. But feel better knowing that you're not alone feeling lame about not doing something that you know is so good for you. You've probably let it go for so long that you're thinking to yourself, "What's the use? I'll just drop it again another time." That's what I've been thinking about this blog, anyway, for last three months or so. So, know you're not alone.

Naturally, it's that thought that makes me stop thinking about this blog and avoid doing it. We make ourselves feel so bad about not doing what we've set out to do, whether it's keeping a journal, cleaning out our closets, or reconnecting with a loved one we've lost touch with, that we just keep on not doing those things, and keep on feeling bad about it anyway.

Big or small, once we mess up -- or give up -- it becomes an easy excuse to keep up with the giving up (or the messing up, or whatever masochistic habit or lack of habit it may be).

Why are we like this? What's the secret to not being like this? I think the secret might be to have no shame. I thought I felt lame about starting this blog back up for the third time. But as I write this, I'm starting to see what I really feel lame about. And it it's not about starting this blog back up.

It's sharing that I've started this blog back up -- for the third time -- that makes me feel lame. It's thinking about what my friends and family will think when they get my enthusiastic e-mail that, "It's true! I've started my blog back up for the third time!"that makes me feel lame.

And so, the secret to not feeling lame, I've decided, is just have no shame. That's it.

A rant: Don't tell me what day these pants are for

I just stopped what I was doing to come compose this rant, because I just realized something that affects me more than it should, and I'm wondering if it's just me.

I was just moments ago flipping through a clothing catalogue my mother had left on my kitchen table, after getting home from a nice dinner out with a friend. I was enjoying the fact that I had nothing to do so why not stop and flip through this new addition to my reading stack. I was also feeling pretty impressed with myself that somehow the chocolate craving I'd been experiencing my whole 20-minute ride home had been met -- and satisfied, I might add -- instead with the blueberries I saw in my fridge. (Granted, this is the first sweet thing that passed my eyes on my return; had it been the cookies, things would've turned out a lot differently. And that's not to say they still won't ... like I said, I had to drop what I was doing to come write this.)

Anyway, I was feeling quite good and content as I flipped through this catalogue until I saw the name of their corduroy pants: Saturday Corduroy Pants.

This irritated me immediately. Then, as I sat there with my blueberry-eating peace suddenly disrupted by irritation, I wondered, "Why am I so annoyed?"

I thought for a second, then realized exactly why I was annoyed. My inner dialogue went a little something like this, "Don't tell me when I should where these pants, Mr. (or Ms.) So-and-So Catalogue. Maybe I think these pants are good enough for work. Maybe I'd rather wear my ripped jeans on Saturday. Or maybe even my sweatpants! Don't try and tell me that I should be getting dressed in your brightly colored and oh-so-chic corduroys on a Saturday."

And then, "Oh, what, so my life is so lame because these so-called 'Saturday Corduroys' would do just fine on a weekday in my office? My job isn't fancy enough to confine corduroys to the weekend? And my weekends are so uncool and/or uneventful that nothing more than my 6-year-old jeans is necessary?"

So, I think I just got into a legit fight with the catalogue. In my head. But then I realized, "Wait, that fight was with my head."

So I learned two things just now. A) I'm a sucker for marketing, obviously (though their clever naming technique didn't necessarily make me want the special "Saturday Corduroys," it did make me stop and think about my whole life and how I feel about it based on my wardrobe. Nuts.)

And B) I really need to stop beating myself up so much. If a catchy named pair of pants can throw me out of my blissful state into a self-assessing argument with myself, something's gotta give.

But in the meantime, I really hate when clothing catalogues name their clothes after the days of the week. Really, I can figure that out myself, thank you ... (And yes, I was just talking to an inanimate object, I think. I didn't say I was cured, just that I recognize I need one. Knowing is half the battle. Right?)

A wrinkled party is better than no party

As new homeowners during the past year, we’ve had two kinds of get-togethers: Impromptu, and pre-planned.

As stress-inducing as it is for a perfectionist to think about an impromptu party landing in her hands -- “Wait … no over-analyzing of the perfect menu depending on who’s coming with the perfect amount of snacks, side dishes and accompanying beverages? How scary!” -- these have actually always turned out the best. Or the most fun, anyway.

Thinking back to just last year – our first summer of homeownership – I can still feel the topsy-turvy stomach feelings that would overcome me whenever we were getting ready to have a party, or even just one other couple over for dinner.

My thoughts went a little something like this: “Oh no. The floors are covered in dog-hair tumbleweeds. The kitchen’s got a ton of crap in it, the bathroom needs to be cleaned, the living room needs to be cleaned, the whole house, actually, needs to be straightened up! And we need groceries!”

Thinking back to what I must’ve looked like on a typical pre-party trip to the grocery store, holding every kind of grill meat possible with what I’m sure was a panic-stricken look on my face, I could’ve been standing there working out a calculus problem in my head for all anyone knew. Picking between burgers and steak tips really isn’t that complicated – unless you’re on a perfect party quest. Then it can be paralyzing!

Sometimes, my poor husband would be there, too, allowing these overly analytical thoughts on burgers to be released from the safe space of my mind for all the world to hear.

“How much should we get? Do you think that will be enough? I don’t want to get too much and throw it away. Do you think we need burgers and chicken? What about dessert?”

I would literally become paralyzed by indecision, all in the name of perfection. I just couldn’t handle the pressure!

Pushed to the edge of his own sanity on one such occasion, my husband actually made this shocking declaration in the midst of one of my frenzies: "That's it. No more parties. This is insane." (And he loves having parties. I quickly got a hold of myself ... sort of.)

Which brings me to today.

One year later, while I still teeter on the border of this insanity sometimes (I think based in part on the amount of sleep I had the night before), I’ve been thinking more about it, and wondering, “What the hell am I so worried about?”

The people coming over are always our friends, or family. Are they going to disown me if we don’t have three kinds of chips, and a whole veggie tray instead of just the baby carrots I have in the fridge? Um, I hope not. (And I know not … well, they won’t disown me, anyway.)

Will someone complain of a lack of selection? Maybe, though I doubt it. But even if someone did, perhaps someone else would complain about too much selection … or the use of paper plates when we could wash and reuse. Who knows what I’m not even aware of that I could be worrying about.

The point is, I realized all this craziness I’ve been putting myself through – and my poor, patient husband – was not so much about what I thought would be a nice (or even perfect) party, but what I tried to imagine each and every guest would think was a nice party. I was literally trying to be a mind reader, a mood reader, an appetite reader – trying to please everyone with only my imagination to guide me. Hello? Nut job!

While I’m not necessarily cured of this perfect-people-pleasing-party desire – don’t we all want to make our friends and family happy? – I am toning down the over-thinking, little by little. The more gatherings we host, the easier it gets. And, you know what they say -- Practice makes, err … perfect. Great.

Stress lovers: You know you're out there

I've got a little idea about the natural-born perfectionist: We thrive on stress.

Thriving and stress seem to be at odds with each other, right? To thrive means to "grow vigorously," according to Merriam-Webster online. And stress is defined as a constraining force or influence.

But, for someone who wants, or needs, to achieve perfection, you're already kind of a self-hater -- because when you really stop and think about it, nothing can be perfect -- so to live on stress kind of makes sense. In a sick, perfection-seeking sort of way, that is.

I'm pretty sure most type A's/perfectionists/over-achievers think that despite how impossible it is to attain, we should still be striving for perfect, and that getting that much closer every time is worth the pain/aggravation/struggle.

But what does trying to achieve something impossible result in? Stress, obviously. But as obvious as that is, or should be, we do it over, and over again. (I think this behavior also fits into the category of insane. But, I digress.)

Since our natural propensity is to keep pushing ourselves to make things (our work, our knowledge of current events, our bodies, our relationships) as close to perfect as we can get, it's got to be, more likely than not, our natural state to feel stressed. If we're always aiming for the unattainable, can we ever not feel stressed?

I think it's a safe bet to say most of the perfectionists out there generally are usually feeling like crap. And largely from the things going on in our own heads, telling us how imperfect we are.

"Why didn't I work harder on that report?"

"Why can't I lose those last 5 pounds?"

"Why don't I spend more time with my significant other/best friend/family?"

With all of this negativity swirling around in our minds, stress is the natural order of things for us. We're used to feeling like garbage, like we better get up and get going or we'll never do anything worthwhile.

And this is how a person becomes a stress thriver. It's how the perfectionist, or over-achiever, is used to feeling. Take the stress away and we don't know what to do with ourselves.

I'm willing to bet that many people who realize they're perfectionists would also describe themselves as the type of people who can't sit still. Not all perfectionists, but a bunch. I certainly feel this way a lot. (I remember friends in high school thinking there was something seriously wrong with me, or them, because whatever we were doing at the time wasn't fun/exciting/productive enough. Sorry about that.)

As I think more about the sitting still issue, though, I'm realizing most of the time I can sit still just fine when I'm alone, but add anyone else to the house, and I'm a nut.

Hmmm, what could this mean? Is this perfectionism something that's just in our own heads, or is it tied up in worries about how others are perceiving us as well? (People pleasing will have to be another post entirely. But just really quickly -- it's a sham. Stop it now. No one else is even noticing. Trust me.)

So, are we driving ourselves crazy just to answer the harsh words in our heads, or for the fear of hearing those same harsh words from someone else?

I think it's a mix of both for some of us, maybe one or the other for the rest.

If you're trying to do things perfectly for someone else though, get ready to wait a long, long time for that someone else to even realize what you're going through to do it.

And if you're doing it just for you, stop and think about whether you've ever even been satisfied with an unnecessarily stress-filled accomplishment. And was it worth it? Or, in the end, did you think to yourself, "Why did I get so worked up about that? Especially since it didn't turn out perfect anyway ..." (Because it can't, of course.)

I have a feeling more than a few of my fellow perfectionists have looked back at their crazy stressed-out behavior at one time or another and realized the same thing could have been accomplished with far less pain (and fewer weary looks from those close to you, I'm guessing).

I also have a feeling that sure enough, the stress cycle started right back up again the next time a similar task needed to be done.

For the perfectionist, stress is like a little safety blanket. The more we can cling on to it, the more we feel like we're giving it our all.

"If I get myself worked up into a tizzy, at least I'll know I exerted every ounce of my effort on this."

That's not what we're thinking -- because this nutso behavior is totally reflexive, not something we actively decide to do -- that's just what's going on in our subconscious to support this self-defeating behavior.

But tizzy or not, we're not gonna be perfect. So let's cut ourselves some slack. Let's be that super cool cucumber for just one usually stressful project or event, and see how it goes. What's more important in the end? Doing something "perfectly," or feeling perfectly great when you've gotten something done, and still have the energy to enjoy it?

Pressure, pushing down on me ...

When songs come on the radio in the car, they almost always manage to change my mood, if I let them.

Most times, though, I'll be in a certain mood and will want to remain there -- whether it's happy, sad, tired or grumpy -- and I'll search the radio stations until something fits.

This is definitely related to my little problem of over-thinking. (I do it all of the time, on a wide variety of topics, and it's most certainly a result of being a perfectionist and wanting to analyze every possible angle of everything, before coming to the perfect conclusion, decision, whatever.)

So anyway, back to the car. I usually need to find a song complimentary to my frame of mind because I'm always wrapped up in my thoughts, and in these moments, I feel these thoughts are important and must be seen through to some end.

But last night, I didn't let my mood control the music. Or actually, the music snapped me out of my mood -- not a good one -- and I actually started laughing at myself.

I was driving home bleary-eyed from my longest workday of the week, all embroiled in a stressful work-related situation in my mind. And boy was I in it. I was having conversations in there, playing out possible scenarios and how I would react, how others would react, what I would say. It was some juicy stuff!

Then this song came on, and just as I was about to change it, I started laughing.

"Pressure, pushing down on me, pressing down on you ... "

And so it goes.

I immediately realized I was putting myself under pressure, in a made-up scenario in my mind, a scenario that hadn't yet happened and probably wouldn't happen, and therefore certainly didn't deserve this much time.

I do this all of the time. And when I choose to share such a scenario with my at-home sounding board/husband, I get huge flack for it. His favorite reaction to most of my scenarios -- "This doesn't even exist!"

In the car last night I finally had a moment of clarity -- sans the exasperated reaction from my husband -- that I was doing it again. Making up situations in my head, and having physical, emotional reactions to them when they hadn't even really happened.

I took this perfectly placed Queen/David Bowie song last night as a kind gesture from the big guy upstairs, telling me, "Hey, you, snap out of it!"

And I listened! It's amazing what you can hear when you open your ears -- and your mind, and your heart -- and listen for those subtle reminders that everything is really going to be OK.