Some call me “anal retentive.” Others refer to me as “OCD.” Still others might describe me as exacting, finicky, rigid, or perfectionistic.
Diagnostic labels aside, I must admit that I’ve got a little bit of all those qualities. Okay, perhaps a little more than “a little.” (All right, so maybe a lot more than “a little.”) I’ll put it another way: My middle initial, “A,” does not stand for “Any-Way-The-Wind-Blows.”
But truth be told, I’m kind of proud of that. If I take on a task, it is absolutely inconceivable for me not to doggedly see it through to completion. I enjoy being meticulously organized. The items on my desk all are delightfully arranged at perpendicular angles. The frames in my home are never — and I mean never — askew. Even the tools displayed on the pegboard in my garage are positioned with an aesthetic flair. (Mind you, owing to my cultural heritage, I have no idea how to actually use most of these tools…but they do look really cool.)
However, there is a cost to all of this: It’s a lot of work. Perfectionism requires eternal vigilance and unremitting maintenance. When things “aren’t right,” it’s mentally burdensome. And when newly acquired possessions become scraped, scratched, dinged, dented, or otherwise damaged, it really can be a source of distress…at least it used to be.
I spent much of my life constantly worrying about even minor imperfections to my stuff. Even as a kid, I’d safeguard my album covers by encasing them in plastic sleeves and stowing them safely on my closet shelf. I would obsessively polish the chrome on my Schwinn bicycle to eradicate any onset of rusty pitting. Into adulthood, scuffs on my shoes, blemishes on my clothes, and road splats on my car needed immediate attention and remedy.
I lived in a state of perpetual apprehension about that inescapable first flaw. But over the years — and having survived some pretty calamitous life experiences — something changed. The dread of imperfection has given way to acceptance of its inevitability. Rather than dreading the first flaw, now I almost welcome the relief it provides — once it occurs, I never have to worry about it again…
Now, I’m not saying that I love it. And of course, I don’t go out of my way to cause damage to my stuff. (I may be neurotic, but I’m not crazy!) Plus I must confess, I do still get a certain buzz from beholding the unblemished perfection of a pristine new item, right out of the box.
But “perfection” has been redefined. If it’s accompanied by worry, it’s not all that perfect. Now I view defect-free stuff as just waiting to experience some life.
With all that said, everything has its limits…Although I’m glad that I’ve found freedom in imperfection, some things don’t change: I’m still compelled to finish my tasks, to organize my schedule, and to arrange my stuff at perpendicular angles…and damn proud of it!