I feel contentedly subdued today, as in “quiet and rather reflective” and NOT “depressed” if you check online dictionaries. A peaceful calm has settled over my nest and I am energized as in revived, able to take on tasks postponed far too long, such as scraping the old paint off the old bathroom tiles. That has been on my “to do” list ever since I moved into this place.
Am I a perfectionist?
Words echo, circle in my head, audio memories in other people’s voices: if you are going to do something, do it right. If you can’t do it right, there’s no sense doing it at all. Rip it out and start all over. Learn to do as many things as you possibly can and learn to do each well, someday you might need a loaf of bread. A is for average. Three strikes, you’re out. Trained by the best to be the best. Error free, hit the mark, dead on. Precision, precise, perfection?
It’s not a piano. Precision not required to build a crude crate. Nor apparently, to paint apartments. It will take hours to scrape down the tiles, days because I am in no hurry. Whenever I go in there, maybe scrape a little more. I’m doing it because sloppy workmanship drives me nuts. Yet, it is par for the course. Another echo: not everyone does things like we do.
I think I am a perfectionist when precision is required. That’s a given… as a tool & die maker, I worked to close tolerances, often plus or minus a tenth. That’s ±0.0001″ for those not familiar with the lingo. So yes, I am a bit of a perfectionist per training and conditioning. I definately expect more from myself than I do from others, especially if I know that I can do better. But not about everything… not everything is a piano.
What I am asking myself today: how much tolerance do I allow myself and should I work on loosening that up a bit?
Well, I can’t be too much of a perfectionist if I have lived with THIS (see photo below) for damn near a year.
Thanks for reading!
Barnbees 