Friday, June 24, 2011


{no photo}

Do you have any idea what the above type does to me?

I am typing with a very non-flattering cringe all up ON MY FACE right this very moment.

I have always known I was a perfectionist.  I can clearly recall being just 4 years of age and taking great joy in adeptly maneuvering hospital corners while making my lil twin bed adorned with my handmade-by-mom Holly Hobby bedspread. 

I can remember with great precision how I would climb into that twin bed to produce the least amount of ripples and wrinkles; I had it down to an almost exact science at four.


And, then when mom and dad would come to tuck me in at night I would require and vehemently request just a kiss on the forehead so as to not disrupt the covers any further.

I would sleep on my back with my hands to my side straight.

The visual is much like that belonging in a funeral home now that I think of it.

With all these precautions taken, I am sure it is no surprise shock to you that I would wake up only to de-robe the entire bed and make it all again from scratch.

Can one prescribe anxiety drugs to a four year old I ask you?

And I will spare you of my door-closing metaphor for life that reverberates in my noggin on a daily basis.

Let's just say wine helps.  

And for those fellow perfectionists out there, does your work ever feel perfect to you?

Cast my vote as no.

So, I like to think that my circumstances, as of late, are for a better reason.

  1. 5 weeks sans computer (Come to find out, MacBooks don't like orange juice.  Nope, they don't want a drink, not even a small sip, even if it is offered to them by my 6 year old.)
  2. Our family of 4 living in 2 different zip codes as Kenny moves forward with his new job transition.
  3. A housing depression in a failing market AND our house up for sale
  4. Me, without  hair color for 4 months.
  6. The increase and abnormality of strange-ranger black hairs sprinkling my chinny-chin-chin.
Trust me, the last 3 are the most unbearable.

And so, I keep asking myself, where are your hospital corners now, Holly Hobby?

Ah, yes, the better reason.


No pun intended there for my chin hairs, mind you.

I am to step out and stretch.
Look past the controllable as well, control, he ain't there.
He never was.
Perfection? He doesn't exist either.

Reliance, Hardwork, Integrity, Honesty, Laughter, Love, Prayer, and Presence are asking me to tuck them nicely in.

Forget the right angle-fold down and forehead kiss.
Pile in and snuggle full bodied.
Coffin living ain't the life for me.

I am reminding myself daily.

And, I have a call-in prescription for those prickly suckers on my chin.

Prevention and Perseverance all tucked in perfectly comfortably.

Yes, that's more like it.

.mac :)


Anonymous said...

So good to read your ponderings even without a photo. I am learning that as I learn to live with less and less, the more I might feel stretched, but the more I feel His presence. I would exchange that Love for a haircut any day. :)
Come visit and the boys can romp in the park while you unwind!

Angela J Bowman said...

You are talking to the gal who invented perfectionism. Organization is my poison says the girl who color codes her sock drawers. Yes I said drawers, plural. The sporty white ankle socks mustn't be mixed with the black work trouser socks. And of course, the closet is color coordinated, too. The ROY G BIV color system learned in science class back in the day helps keep order in this Diva's world. Any like things I can put together in a cute storage container gives me a quick high. The Container Store is coming to Green Hills Mall. I fear I might need an intervention. "Hi, my name is Angie and I'm a control freak."

Will you wait for me at the light pole?


Angie B.

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