Trying So Hard to Be Perfect (Blog #99)

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Yesterday I started physical therapy. Before I left the house in the rental car, I parked my wrecked car in the driveway and put the keys in the pocket of the door. I left the beat-up mats inside even though Dad said I could sell them at a garage sale. “Five dollars is five dollars,” he said. “It just sounds like another thing to do,” I answered. But I did try to take the stereo system out, even though I was unsuccessful and cracked the plastic frame. I thought, Oh shit! then remembered that the car was totaled and about to be someone else’s problem. Fuck it. (I think that’s a spiritual saying.)

Since the accident I’ve been even more aware of my poor posture, so when I got to therapy yesterday, instead of slouching like I usually do, I sat straight up in the chair. (It was extremely uncomfortable, and I guess it basically amounted to cleaning your house BEFORE the maid comes over.) Anyway, the meeting went well, and by that I mean he told me I have arthritis in my neck, so–since I’m falling apart–maybe I should get a wheelchair instead of a new car. Now I have stretches to do twice a day, three times if I want, but no more than that. (At this point in the conversation, he actually made a comment about overachieving–like it was a bad thing.)

When I got home last night, my wrecked car (Polly), the one I got from Grandma when she died, was gone. The tow company the insurance company hired had come to pick it up. On one hand, I’m glad to see it go. I didn’t really care for the color and I’m excited about the new-to-me car I’m planning to get next week. On the other hand, I’m sort of sad. I’ve driven Grandma’s cars since college, as the one I had before Polly–Wanda the Honda–came from her too. That’s a lot of memories and a lot of miles. So much of my life spent in that car, driving to work, listening to music, spilling coffee on the mats. I’ve never said this out loud, but I always thought it was one way Grandma and I could be close, since we never really were, unless close means buying your gay grandson a Ford F-150 wall clock for Christmas.

Uh, thanks, Grandma, but I’m not a lesbian.

You know how when a criminal escapes from prison, people describe them by their scars and tattoos? Well, as I think about Polly, that’s what I remember–all the imperfections. There were the coffee stains of course, a couple cigarette burns, maybe from me, maybe from Grandma. She smoked Virginia Slims. There was the spot in the bumper when I backed into a light pole after a church concert. Ugh. More coffee on the mats. The speakers–sucked.

Last year I rescued two puppies on the side of the road. I kept them for as long as I could, but they were too much, what with closing the studio, having the estate sale, thinking about moving. So I took them to the Humane Society. A couple months later I spent an hour looking at pictures on their Facebook page until I found out they had new homes. Even after we said goodbye, their paw prints remained on my car windows for over six months. I only recently washed them off.

Today, after breakfast and neck stretches, I went to the chiropractor for a massage, an adjustment, and some sort of TENS therapy for the spasm in my back. All of those treatments were done by three different people, so it felt like I was a soccer ball getting passed from one person to the next–down the hallway, past the refrigerator, into the back room with the cute guy who said, “I’m gonna need you to take off your shirt.” Score!

I noticed the chiropractor today was wearing a pair of black cowboy boots. I also noticed while lying on the table that there was a spot on the ceiling where the sheet rock needed to be patched and painted. I don’t know if it’s my personality or the fact that I’m a writer, but this is shit that actually takes up space in my brain, little details that most people would have long forgotten. But all day I’ve been wondering why that one spot hasn’t been fixed, since it’s pretty obvious from looking around the place that the owner is a perfectionist–everything in just the right place. (Also, someone at the office today said, “The owner’s a perfectionist.”) As for the boots, I’m still trying to figure out why they’re stuck in my head.

There’s gotta be a reason.

This evening I did my neck stretches again, and then I stretched on a foam roller and did chi kung. For the most part, all of these things–including the treatments at the chiropractor–feel good. But certain things feel like a fight, as if I’m wanting the muscles in my neck and back to move one way–flexible, fluid–and they’re saying, “Hell no, we won’t go.” So it occurred to me just how hard I’m working lately to get everything in just the right place. Yesterday the physical therapist said, “You look like you’re really working to sit up straight,” and I almost cried. You have no idea how hard I’m working. It’s like I have this idea about the perfect body in my head, and mine doesn’t measure up. My shoulders are rounded. My neck sticks out. I see total strangers with good posture, neck over shoulders, and think, They must be so happy.

As I think about those cowboy boots now, I know why I noticed them. They were brand new, not an imperfection about them. Anything but worn in, they looked–uncomfortable. Maybe that’s why he walked the way he did. (Do you think it would be weird if I asked him to take his boots off, turn around, and saunter down the hallway so I could compare?) Anyway, I used to have a pair of cowboy boots like that. But by the time I got rid of them, they were all scuffed up and full of stories–line dances I’d taught, parties I’d been to. I actually think I was wearing them one of the first times I held my nephew. If I wasn’t, I should have been.

I think it’s fascinating that it’s almost always the imperfections that stand out, the things we remember about our favorite pair of shoes, the cars we drive, the people we love. I used to date a guy who was a forceps baby. He was hot to begin with, but he had this scar to the side of his mouth where the doctors had pulled him out, and it was one of the sexiest things I’ve ever seen. I’m not discounting the perfect, of course. There’s nothing like the smell of a new car, nothing like the look of a dancer’s back.

Still, almost everyone in my family has rounded shoulders, a neck that sticks out ever so slightly. Put us all around a kitchen table, and we naturally lean into each other. Even now, sitting here all alone, I can feel what it’s like to hug each one of them, my arms slipped around their curvy backs, the way our shoulders connect in such a way that no one could slip between us if they tried. It’s in these moments that I forget my self-judgments and stop trying so hard to be perfect, that I remember what cars and boots and bodies are for. It’s in these moments that I can look at myself in the mirror and, seeing all my twists and turns, fall in love with every imperfect mile.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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Healing is never a straight line.

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small beginnings (blog #36)

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Last night I slept for a grand total of two hours. When the alarm went off at 7:45 this morning, I stumbled into the kitchen and stood in a daze with the freezer door open for five minutes while I stared at one frozen waffle and wished it were two frozen waffles. (Unfortunately, the waffle never multiplied, so don’t ask me to feed the five thousand.)

I spent the day attending Leadercast at the Van Buren Performing Art Center. Leadercast is an annual, national event where several prominent leaders from various fields come together to discuss leadership. This year’s theme was “purpose,” and the event took place in Atlanta, but was broadcast to cities around the world, including Van Buren. Two of the speakers today were local, and one of them was my friend Marla, and she had an extra ticket, and that’s why I dragged my ass out of bed so early.

When I got to the event, the third speech was already in progress, so I sneaked in the back and thought, Apparently some leaders get out of bed REALLY early. The guy speaking was Jim McKelvey, the creator of the credit card processing software called Square. Well, anytime I attend events like these, I always take notes because my inner straight-A student simply will not quit, even when he’s sleep deprived. So the first thing I wrote in my “lowing my expectations has succeeded beyond my wildest dreams” notebook was “An artist is someone who makes something that nobody needs,” but what I thought was “An artist is someone in his mid-thirties who lives with his parents and stays up until five-thirty in the morning blogging about it,” which just made my ego soar. I’m an artist.

After Jim’s speech, there was a break and I found Marla. We walked upstairs where several sponsors were giving away free pens, magnets, squeezy balls to help reduce stress, and coffee. Ya’ll, I’ve never been so glad to see a cup of coffee in all my life. It tasted like a miracle, better than two frozen waffles ever could have. But the most notable part of the entire break was that there was a jazz combo playing, right there in the middle of the room (in Van Buren, Arkansas). I looked at Marla and said, “Who has a jazz combo at nine-thirty in the morning?” Talk about something that nobody needs. Still, I couldn’t help do a little Bob Fosse number as we walked down the stairs, the whole time thinking, I should get up before noon more often.

After the break, there were more speakers, and then we had lunch. And then there were even more speakers. One guy, a psychologist named Dr. Henry Cloud, told the story of a woman with an eating disorder who used to come to group therapy “dressed to the nines.” And it became this point of discussion, like, why do you have to look so perfect? But she said she just had to.

So one day he’s in a suit and tie, about to leave the group and go straight to give a big presentation, and he looks at this lady and takes his cup of coffee and pours it down the front of his dress shirt and says, “You don’t have to be perfect.”

As he told the story today, he did it again. He just poured his coffee down the front of his white dress shirt, made a couple jokes about not having a six-pack (but having a keg), and kept going with his speech. So I got out my notebook and wrote, “You don’t have to be perfect,” and I centered it perfectly in the middle of the page, and then I went back and added a smart-looking exclamation point. (And that, my friends, is called irony.)

The last speaker in Atlanta was Tyler Perry, the creator of the character Madea. Back to the theme of purpose, Tyler said that he found his purpose on the other side of his pain. Tyler also said that when he was first getting started, he wrote a play that took six years to really get off the ground, that he lived in his car for part of that time. “Scripture reminds us to never despise small beginnings.”

After Tyler, Marla spoke. She talked about how much she loved this area, how her roots were planted deep, and how she wanted local leaders to know what a difference they make, that people notice. Her speech was so beautiful that it almost made me not want to move.

Almost. (But maybe that means that when I do move, I’ll move with more appreciation for my roots.)

This evening I took a nap for a few hours. When I woke up and told my brain that I needed to write, my brain took one look at me and said, “You’ve got to be fucking kidding.”

So here we are. It’s two-thirty in the morning, and I wish I could tell you where I’m going with all this. Usually I try to pick one event or emotion and stick to it, figure it out, find a lesson in it. But on days like today, it’s harder to do that. I heard so many wonderful, inspiring things today. Hell, I heard a jazz combo at nine-thirty this morning. All day I kept thinking about the blog and about writing, about being an artist and how I struggle with perfection. I thought about how therapy and even this blog have helped me to work through my pain and how it feels like I’m getting closer to my purpose. I thought about small beginnings, how I often despise them, wishing for something better rather than appreciating them for what they are—actual beginnings.

And how beautiful it is to begin!

And how beautiful it is to begin, however imperfectly.

Quotes from CoCo (Marcus)

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You've got to believe that things can turn around, that even difficult situations--perhaps only difficult situations--can turn you into something magnificent.

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