Tuesday, September 17, 2013

The Procrastinating Perfectionist

My first memory of certifiable procrastination dates back to 5th grade. That was about 20 years ago. I had to do a report on Galileo, and make a poster of what I had learned. I remember very little about the assignment. What I remember is that I waited until literally the night before it was due, and I had probably had a month to work on it. I cried and cried, and stayed up late into the night working on the poster board. Apparently my parents remember this incident too- nothing about the experience was pleasurable for them, and I am very thankful in retrospect that they chose not to bail me out, but allowed me to suffer the consequences and figure out a solution on my own,

This trend continued into high school and college- I remember writing essays for my freshman year English class, and falling asleep one night with my head resting on the bookshelf that was right next to the computer in the family room. One night Amber Casali and I drank a pot of coffee while trying to finish the outline for a history day project on Gandhi that would eventually win us 5th in state in the creative performance category.

In college I usually wrote my papers the day before they were due- there were many long nights and early mornings in the computer lab, and one project that was completed half asleep in the hallway of my freshman dorm at three in the morning. And the classic political science mid-term fiasco, in which I woke up halfway through the test, ripped an old essay out of my roommate Betsy's blue book so I could use the rest of it, and ran into the lecture hall with pajama pants and crazy ass hair, looking like some kind of subway monster. Thanks again to my good friend Caitlin, who had been about to leave class in order to go call me and wake me up.

These stories make me sound like a bit of a flake when it came to school work, but the truth is that I pulled good grades, even when I was pulling papers out of my ass. To be fair, there were several math and science classes I came close to failing over the years, but that's a different blog post.

This way of being worked for me- I created solid work under pressure, thought about what I had to say for a long time, then cranked it out right before it was due. I absolutely did myself a disservice, too, by always turning in my first attempt, and being unwilling to have the patience to revise my work or face any serious criticism.

This is an epidemic among perfectionists, and I've spent the day procrastinating on the things I need to do, and thinking about why.

When you don't want to fuck up, make any mistakes, or, god forbid, disappoint someone, it's easier to do something at the last minute that put all of your effort into it. There is some juicy material in here about fear, and the unknown, and perhaps the great mystery that awaits us in death, but I may need more therapy before I can clearly articulate all this.  What I know is that I even though I understand that perfection is a foolish and unhealthy goal, I still do my best my attain it.  For me that meant getting good grades on papers I wrote the night before they were due, or spending lots of time daydreaming about my goals instead of starting the long, arduous, unpredictable journey toward achieving them.

I think with perfectionism there is a lot of "owning it." For instance, feeling that if your dog shits on your roommates pillow, that is somehow a reflection on your character.  Or if you don't get a job, or have a date that goes poorly, that it somehow means you are unworthy of success or love.

So procrastination tempers this- it gives us a little space, a buffer between our real experiences and the feeling that we are going to choose the wrong path or let ourselves or someone else down.

Procrastination and perfectionism are like the Laurel and Hardy of personal issues- they were made for each other.

I have been thinking about applying for a new job, but I haven't done anything about it yet. I am overwhelmed by the idea of looking, facing rejection, and knowing that a change of routine is inevitable. Today I ate chocolate whiskey cake that Steven made, went running with Guthrie, did yard work, washed the covers on the couch cushions, and fixed the handle of a frying pan before I actually sat down to look at my resumes.

All day I felt like Paul Rudd in Wet Hot American Summer, when he throws his tray on the floor after breakfast, and Janeane Garofalo makes him pick it up.  I hemmed and hawed and whined and threw my arms around like a baboon, but I finally, grumpily, opened up my computer and sat down to work.

I feel better now that I've taken the first tiny step towards progress. I feel better now that I stopped thinking about writing something, and actually WROTE IT.  Tomorrow I am going to do more yard work, paint my toenails, write some letters, and make some soup.  Then, if I get around to it, I'll start working on some cover letters. Wish me luck- and may the force be with you.

Friday, September 6, 2013

Too Darn Hot

When I lived in Seattle, I used to pine for the coming of summer as early as December.  By March, I would be desperately trying to wear my blue and white polka dot summer dress, layered over leggings, smart wool socks, and slippers. We would still have the heat turned on to stave off the chill of a rainy spring, and I have a distinct memory of my roommate Kyle yelling to me, "Lindsey, it's too early for summer dresses! Give up the ghost!"  

In high school my friend Annie and I would go outside in the summer to get "sun drunk." There was no alcohol involved, we would just find a field to lay in and let the Northern sun bake us until we felt tipsy and relaxed.

About two and a half years ago I moved to Austin, Texas, and although my seasonal depression has definitely improved, I went from craving the August sun to feeling like I am living in the apocalypse.  

I have mentioned this before, but it bears repeating.  Summer in Austin is like winter in Seattle.  I drink too much beer, stay inside, watch movies, and feel trapped in the house.  Much like February in Seattle, by the time August rolls around I think everyone is feeling a bit stir crazy due to the weather. 

My gardening experiment has all but failed, save for the fig tree I water every morning, a scraggly basil plant and some rosemary.

I try to run in the mornings or at night, but the past few weeks I can barely drag my shoes on, much less convince my body to launch myself through the neighborhood, dripping sweat from every crack and pore. 

It's easier to throw on a dress, stuff dog treats in my pocket, and wander around with Guthrie like a thirsty zombie at 9 in the morning before wandering back to the house to shower and change my clothes. 

I'm like a grumpy vampire that stayed up all night and resents the dawn.

Don't get me wrong, I am not about to pack my bags and head home to the certain hell that is 6 months of rain. There is so much I still love about living here: the sounds of the bugs, the smell of the trees, the big sky, my boyfriend and my dog, tacos and polka music, church picnics and Lyle Lovett.

You know he was a famous song in which he sings, "That's right, you're not from Texas, but Texas wants you anyway."  

I fielded a lot of questions about my choice to move when I was home this summer.  Friends asking if I like it, if I'll move back to Seattle, etc.  Coming home brings up complicated feelings- my gut told me I needed a change of scene, and although I absolutely miss my parents, sisters, and friends, I have a deep sense that allowing myself new, unknown experiences in a wildly different state has done me a world of good.

Knowing that didn't seem to help avoiding a small mental health crises when I returned to hot Austin. I talked about losing my marbles in my last post- I feel like upon coming back I had a whole train full of marbles that has briefly derailed, and I am doing my best to get back on track.

For those of us who live in Austin- cut yourself a break.  Let's be real here, guys.  August is not the time for making big plans or ruminating on the purpose of life.  It's a time to hunker down, take good care, and pray for the fever heat to break.  

I found this quote by Rachel Naomi Remen, in her book "My Grandfather's Blessings." 

" . . . it seems to me that knowing where we are going encourages us to stop seeing and hearing and allows us to fall asleep. In fact, when I find myself on such a direct path, a part of me rushes ahead toward the front door the moment I see it. As I hurry to overtake this part, I usually do not really see anything that I pass.
        Not knowing where you are going creates more the uncertainty; it fosters a sense of aliveness, an appreciation of the particulars around you.
        In fact, perhaps we only think we know where we are going as all the while we are really going somewhere quite different. I have done many things in order to achieve a valued goal only to discover in time that the real goal my choices have led me toward is something else entirely. Something I could not even have known existed when I first set foot upon the path. The purpose underlying life often wears the mask of whatever has our attention at the time. The very reason we were born, our greatest blessing, or our way to serve may come into our lives looking like a new car, a chance to travel, or a cup of the finest coffee. 
        The truth is that we are always moving toward mystery and so we are far closer to what is real when we do not see our destination."

Although we don't all live in the same city, I think many of us are in the same boat.  I am going to do my best go collect my marbles and my train cars, be kind to myself, and remember that life is a process, and one of these days we will get a good hard rain.  

And when the uncertainty and clattering of thoughts become too pervasive- do as Guthrie does. Find a soft spot, cuddle with some pillows, and take a rest.

I did not put that pillow there, I found him just like that. :)