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Addicted to perfection?

Cindy on January 27th, 2009

“To live a creative life, we must lose our fear of being wrong.” – Joseph Chilton Pearce

It’s just a simple garden plaque, but I knew I had to order one as soon as I saw it in a mail-order catalog. Handcrafted from terra cotta, it announces in plain bold letters: EMBRACE IMPERFECTION.

I bought it to hang on a brick wall near the patio. But somehow, it looked out of place with the other ceramic plaques my husband and I had collected from summer art fairs. It was a little too perfect and needed some crafty touches — a few dabs of paint here and there to make it look old and weathered. Never one to argue, my artistic husband gave the plaque a nice patina and hung it where I would see it from the garden room window.

Now that I think about it, I should have ordered several to post all over the house. I’ve battled perfectionism most of my life, and while it has served me well at times, it usually makes me miserable. Sometimes it makes others miserable, too.

Perfectionism is the snarky little gremlin hissing in my ear when the floors are littered with muddy shoes and old newspapers. It tells me I’m a lousy housekeeper and that I shouldn’t even think of entertaining company until everything is spotless. It also likes to remind me that my table settings never look like the ones in Martha Stewart Living, anyway.

Perfectionism is the critical woman looking back at me in the mirror — the woman who thinks I need to lose more weight, or that the shirt I am wearing wasn’t ironed properly. She seems to suggest that I’ll never be as cool as Jamie Lee Curtis or Lauren Hutton.

Perfectionism is the imaginary editor looking over my shoulder while I type. She nags when my sentences are weak, and tells me that I’m not really a writer. If I really slip and misspell a word or dangle a modifier in one of my columns or articles, I brood for hours, convinced that my readers have lost faith in me, and that every English teacher in Oakland County has ripped my offending piece from the paper and waved it in front of her class. My imaginary editor never lets me forget.

“Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people,” warns novelist Anne Lamott. “It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life.”

The crazy thing is, I know better. And oddly enough, I’ve always appreciated quirkiness in other people and the things they own. Distressed furniture, thrift-shop finds, overgrown cottage gardens, non-pedigree pets, freckles, and crooked smiles intrigue me. The people whose style I admire tend to be rule-breakers or different drummers. Even the saints were social misfits.

Years ago, on a photo shoot for a travel magazine, I learned that early Mennonite quilters stitched a “humility patch” –- a deliberate mistake — into each of their prized quilts. The patch served to remind the circle of quilters that only God can create a flawless masterpiece. When I can’t seem to get things right, I try to remember those intricately patterned quilts.

Like most card-carrying perfectionists, I began my career as a people-pleaser. As a kid I was told that if you can’t do something exactly right, it’s not worth doing at all. Looking for approval from teachers, I never colored outside the lines. As a teenager, I dressed to please my peers but avoided upsetting my parents. Finally, by the time I reached my forties, I realized the pursuit of perfection was futile, not to mention exhausting.

I know, now, that to embrace imperfection is to let go of the need to be right, or look good, all of the time. It’s never easy. But as Anne Lamott advises, I keep telling myself that messes and mistakes are proof that real life is being lived here. And even when I can’t fully embrace imperfection, as my garden plaque urges, I try, at least, to shake hands with it.  — Cindy La Ferle

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What is “retirement”?

Cindy on August 13th, 2008

Retirement has been a discovery of beauty for me.  I never had the time before to notice the beauty of my grandkids, my wife, the tree outside my very own front door.  And, the beauty of time itself.”  ~Hartman Jule

Not long ago, Jamie Lee Curtis — a terrific role model for 50-something women — told reporters she was no longer accepting movie roles. She would focus, instead, on spending more time with her family and writing children’s books — so, of course, this didn’t mean she was “retiring.”  Curtis has another life — a richly textured life. Regardless, when most of us walk away from major careers, we typically think of ourselves as “retired,” and we have to craft a whole new self image, not to mention a reason to justify our very existence.

Ours is a workaholic culture. While Baby Boomers give lip service to the theory that leisure is good for us, we’re not very good at practicing it. Few of us like to use the words “retired” or “retirement.” Retirement wears the dubious sheen of laziness, suggesting too many hours spent dangling in a hammock or schlepping around a golf course. And if you’re still unable to think outside the old corporate box, you might assume that being retired means you’ve shed your usefulness.

I had this same conversation with a “semi-retired” neighbor I spotted yesterday on my morning bike ride. My neighbor was walking his dog, looking unusually relaxed and happy. Now in his late fifties, my neighbor found himself in “early retirement” when his company downsized two years ago.  This year, he’s been working at a part-time job, just two days a week. He spends the rest of his time focusing on interests he’d postponed for years — fly fishing, reading, spending more time with his wife. Of course, he’s had to readjust his budget (like most retirees) but his youngest kid just finished college and his family can manage, he said. His wish list always included studying the major literary classics — and for the first time in ages, he’s making progress. Life is good now, he said, but it took a while for him to adjust to a new rhythm — and a different view of himself. I know exactly what he meant.

I’m thinking of the time, back in the 1990s, when I lost a magazine editorship I’d held for nearly six years. (The magazine had won awards and was respected by its industry and its readers, but, as the old story goes, advertisers weren’t keeping it afloat.) Until the magazine folded, I hadn’t realized how tightly my self image had been tied to my illustrious title of “Editor in Chief.”  Even though I was a devoted wife, mother, and homemaker, I listed my editorship at the top of my resume and mentioned it first when people at cocktail parties would ask, “What do you do?”

As my semi-retired friend and I agreed, if we are people of any depth, we are not what we do. Call it what you will — job loss or retirement — career change shakes up our way of being and forces us to re-examine who we are without our labels. Career change invites us to reinvent ourselves, make new discoveries, and even to become three-dimensional at last. Scary? Yes, but also very exciting.  — Cindy La Ferle

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