Tag Archives: perfectionism

Tonight my community group (life group) will host a special guest. One of our pastors is coming to give a demonstration of the Passover meal. A few members of our group have seen him do this before.

I am not one of the few.

The buzz about it has been like the hype that sent everyone running to a “theater near you” when Titanic came out.

I’ve been hoping to do this for a while, so you’d think I’d be ready.

I spoke to the pastor at church yesterday. When I saw him coming toward me, my mind immediately started spinning out rapid thoughts.

He’s coming tomorrow. We’ll eat a meal together, and then he’ll do his thing. Everyone’s said what they’re bringing, and I know I can count on them. We’ll clean the house today, and then I’ll clean it again tomorrow. (Correctly, by myself). I know what I’m supposed to provide: drinks, ice, all the dining supplies, some kind of potato-

“Are you ready for tomorrow?” he asked, cutting off my thoughts.

So naturally, I responded with the perfect answer.

“I’m trying to figure out what kind of potato to make.”

Confusion registered on his face. Okay, it wasn’t a perfect answer. And that’s really not surprising since I responded to the noise in my head instead of to his question.

He wasn’t asking if I’d solved my potato conundrum. And it’s not what I should have been thinking about.

When I saw him, my thoughts should have jumped to the purpose of his visit. But they didn’t. Not because I don’t care. Actually, I care very much. I’m just distracted by my own role.

Host.

If it was happening anywhere but my house, my answer would have been completely different.

“Yes, I’m ready! I can’t wait!”

But it is happening at my house, and that’s all I could think about. I had let preparation take precedence over purpose.

I was well on my way toward letting a Martha mindset rob me of a Mary experience.

I love hosting, though it kinda kills me. The stress is totally my fault, and totally unnecessary. I take everything too far, as I’ve shared before. I host our CG every Monday night, which means I spring-clean my house more often than recommended.

Around here, spring isn’t a season. It’s a day of the week.

Add in food prep, and I’m sure to exhaust myself. This is one reason we don’t eat at my CG. My body can no longer bear the strain my perfectionist mind puts on it.

I can juggle cooking and cleaning well enough. I do it every day for the yahoos who live here. But hosting is different.

Outsider yahoos get a snapshot, and it’s stuck there until they get the next one. I need everything in that snapshot to look and smell good.

How can I make the house smell clean when I’ve been cooking in it?

Exactly the sort of question a perfectionist wants answered. I might as well be asking how my family can live here without displaying any signs of life.

I’ve been studying what the experts say about perfectionism, and they all seem to agree. Perfectionism doesn’t mean you have high standards. It means you’re scared.

If you’re a proud member of the picky-pants club, you probably don’t like being accused of fear-driven behavior. There was a time when it would have ticked me off. But I’ve been working on this for a while, really digging into what’s going on inside me, and it resonates as truth.

If my housekeeping standards were only about me, then they wouldn’t change when someone is coming over. My writing standards wouldn’t change when I’m going to share my work.

I sing Judy Garland’s “I Don’t Care!” all the time, thinking I really mean it. But I guess I’m not just wearing picky-pants. I’m also wearing pants-on-fire.

The truth, then? My perfectionism is based on fear.

I’m scared I’m not good enough. I’m scared I’ll be judged. I’m scared that the things I think about myself are the same things others think about me.

So I host like I’ve entered a hosting contest, and I write like everyone who might read my work is searching for an excuse to leave a bad review.

I’ve got some things under control, at least. I know I can get the house looking nice, and I know I can buy some yummy tea. Milo’s, duh. But what if I make the wrong kind of potatoes?

As if that’s a thing?! All potatoes are good.

If I’m going to be scared anyway, I might as well do it by facing my fears instead of catering to them. I’ll start by not hosting the way I normally do.

And if I’m doing that, I might as well apply some anti-perfectionism to my writing, too. Otherwise, I might not ever hit publish on this blog post.

That’s why I’m typing this blog right now with no regard for SEO. I’m basically journaling for all to see, admitting that I’m a perfectionist because I’m afraid of being judged. Afraid that everyone else will see how utterly deficient I really am.

I could edit this and miss my own point. I could bow to my fears. But I refuse to do it. I have to pick Noah up from work, take Gabe to work, do some shopping, get the house ready to host, make some dang potatoes … and I’m sitting here typing away, still in my morning yoga clothes, determined to be real and messy and humiliatingly honest.

I swear I’m going to do that, even if it means I sit here until there’s not enough time to do all the other things the way I normally do them.

So here’s the truth.

I’m scared. Ugh. I care what people think. Double-ugh. I really didn’t want that to be true about me. But it is.

I won’t host perfectly tonight. But that’s okay, because no one is coming to see (or smell) my clean house or to enjoy my perfect potatoes.

They’re coming to learn something new. To experience something in a deeper way. And I want that, too.

Tell me if you struggle with this. And especially tell me if you have advice about how to beat it!