E is for August

and Everything Else

An Expectation

Have you seen the show Shrinking?

There’s a line in the show when Paul is talking to Jimmy. He says, “That’s you, Jimmy. Always picturing in your mind the ideal version of how you want things to go. But life’s messier than that. And it’s okay.”

I’ve been replaying that line in my head lately, but substituting “Allison” for “Jimmy.”

Because, yeah. That’s me.

I am always picturing the ideal version of how I want things to go.

Logically, I know life isn’t always going to go according to my best-laid plans. Geez, I wrote a whole book about it.

And if you read it, you know that it ends with the confession that I’m not reformed. I’m still a perfectionist at heart. “I still wake up every morning and remind myself that I am not in control,” I wrote. “All I can do is control the way I respond to whatever arises—with a grin, some grit, and a bit of grace.”

This is how I love to end my essays: I take whatever mishap or issue I’ve been writing about and somehow manage to find the positive spin. I wrap it up with a neat little bow.

But lately, I’ve been wondering if there’s a problem with that last sentence.

Because it puts a lot of responsibility—and pressure—on me and how I respond.

If life throws me something messy and I respond by losing my temper, feeling overwhelmed, or crying, then I feel doubly bad.

Bad about the situation.

And bad about the way I responded to the situation.

Which, when you think about it, is a pretty sneaky form of perfectionism.

I may have stopped expecting life to be perfect. But apparently I still expect my response to life to be perfect.

An Example

Case in point: our basement flooded back in May.

We couldn’t figure out where the water was coming from. Over the next few weeks, we consulted with various contractors, and they were all equally mystified.

Meanwhile, we had the carpet pulled up, the drywall ripped off, and the furniture piled on one side of the room.

Eventually, we determined that the most likely cause was hydrostatic pressure creating a leak in the foundation at the cove joint.

If that’s too technical for you, let me translate:

$$$$$

The problem was, we still didn’t know exactly where the leak was. So, once the soggy drywall was removed, we decided to wait for another hard rain and see if we could pinpoint the source.

We watched.

And waited.

And I took deep breaths and reminded myself that life is messy.

And my basement is messy.

And it’s okay.

For two months, we did this.

Two months.

Several hard rains came and went, and not a drop of water appeared.

So finally, we decided to try a less expensive solution: waterproofing the interior walls rather than excavating outside all the way down to the foundation.

And then, the day after the new drywall went up, guess what happened?

It poured.

And water started leaking into our basement.

Of course it did.

Meanwhile, our dog got sick.

We’re not sure what happened, but she couldn’t keep anything down. When it didn’t improve over the next few days, she ended up at the emergency vet severely dehydrated and had to stay overnight.

She’s home now, thank goodness, but she’s still not herself. And her stool isn’t quite back to normal yet.

An Epiphany

Here’s how my perfectionism morphed into a new monster. I used to want everything to go according to plan. Now I’m trying to be the person who responds perfectly when things don’t go according to plan.

Instead of:

“The basement shouldn’t flood.”

It’s become:

“The basement flooded, but surely I should be able to handle that with a smile.”

And then:

“The dog is sick, but I should be able to stay calm.”

Today, it’s raining again.

There’s still no resolution to the basement project, so we engineered a temporary, highly sophisticated solution involving a tarp and some duct tape along the side of the house.

And then I came upstairs and cleaned up more diarrhea.

This is the part where I’m supposed to tell you that I took a deep breath.

That I reminded myself that none of this is within my control.

That I responded with a grin, some grit, and a bit of grace.

I did not.

I am frustrated about the basement. I am worried about my sweet dog. And, honestly, sometimes I just want to cry.

I’m working on accepting that this is okay, too.

An Ending

Which, of course, brings me to the end of this essay.

And look at me.

I’m doing it again.

I’m trying to take the mishap, extract the lesson, and tie everything up with a neat little bow.

So this time, I’m leaving the bow sitting on the kitchen counter next to the duct tape.

Life’s messy?

Got it.

And it’s okay?

Still working on it.