There is something in my chemistry that makes decisions painfully hard on me.
Even as a child, the thought of choosing ONE ice cream flavor was a crippling task. I’d start weighing the pros and cons of my possible choices on route to the ice cream store. Black raspberry? Had that last time. Mint chip? Mom doesn’t like that and I don’t want to gross her out. Peach? Yes, my favorite but they don’t often offer that flavor. Better have a back up flavor.
Then the worst would happen! “You want that in a dish, sugar cone, plain cone or waffle cone?” Yikes! Never mind! I need more TIME!
This comes from the only/oldest perfectionism. It assumes that every question has a correct answer.
I tend to weigh many of my decisions very carefully. I’ve become quicker and tried to remind myself that “perfect” is unattainable, kinda like the idea that the Golden Gate Bridge never really has one new coat of paint. One end is aging as the other is being painted…the job is never done!
It wasn’t long before I took on the “frustrated perfectionist” role. If I never really tried to have things perfect, then the pressure would be off.
Dirt under the finger nails? Who cares.
Perfect posture? Ha!
Hole in my shoe? Feels good. I like ventilation.
Much has been written about our birth order and how it influences us. I’m sure it does. I’m even more sure that our “natural born” personality has as much to do with how we handle it.
I'm nobody! who are you? Are you nobody too, then there's a pair of us. Don't tell! they'd advertise you know. How dreary-to be somebody. How public-like a frog. To tell one's name-the livelong June, to an admiring bog. Poem by Emily Dickinson.