soapboxdiner

On being perfect: otherwise known as Fuck You: A story from there to here

Another Christmas coming and another feverish push to get all the presents procured and wrapped while the bills form a tidy little stack in the tidy little area on my desk I like to call, "Fuck me. There goes all my money."

A christmas memory for you. Growing up in the Little Big Town of Billings, Montana. Driving through the empty industrial district late at night, old brick buildings that used to house warehouses and manufacturing, now empty. Broken windows boarded up on graffiti-covered painted facades. Street lights illuminating cracked sidewalks traversed only by vagrants and prostitutes.

It's cold and snowing. The windows of the Impala are frosted, but wiping my coat sleeve across the window, I watch the snowflakes drift through the puddles of light cast by the passing cars. I rest my head on the back passenger window of the car as my mother and I sit in silent concentration, slowly driving through town. Cold vinyl bench seats and an eight-track Delco AM/FM stereo. It's almost Christmas, and In The Ghetto by Elvis Presley is on the radio. And there is peace; bittersweet and beautiful.

Today, it is still my favorite Christmas song.

But I've completed the compilation of four generations of recipes from my grandparents, parents, friends, siblings, and our children, and I've typed them all into a book. The books are now printed, assembled, wrapped, and distributed throughout all our family and friends. It was warmly received by coworkers. "What a thoughtful, personal gift!"

"Oh, good. I'm very glad you like it. I hope you enjoy the recipes. These recipes have survived through World War II, into the baby boomer age (when baby boomers were still babies), and now down to us. It was an amazing experience for me. I really hope you enjoy it too." This I say as I flip through the book and notice stray typos that I didn't catch the first 6 times through the book and internally criticize myself for my lack of proofreading skills.

Oh, well. Who among us is perfect?

But aren't I supposed to be? Mama always said, "You can do better." And so I was supposed to, and I did my best because I was supposed to. And when it was better than most, I was trying too hard. When it wasn't enough -- push for better. And in the middle of the maelstrom, don't fuck up. Do your best. Anything worth doing is worth doing well.

And then you get pregnant and go to technical school for a career that is lucrative without a lot of training. Medical Transcription -- that's the ticket! Only don't make a mistake because if you do, you could put the chart note under the wrong patient's medical record number. If you do that, your mistake could "give a patient cancer. It could kill them!" So you double and triple check your work. Perfection, perfection, perfection!!!

Except you aren't. But it's your job. It's expected, so you do it. Just do it.

And then you leave the medical field and go into transcription training in an outside field. Your job is to critique people. Experience tells you that if you don't do your job well, you will lose it. Nothing is guaranteed, so just do your job well and don't complain. Be as perfect as you can, and teach others to do the same -- if you want to keep the job that feeds your family and puts a roof over your head. Cuz if it's worth doing, it's worth doing well.

It's expected.

And out into the floor I go -- Meeting! -- overheard. CEO, director, accountant and staff assembled around the popcorn bin in the office. "Anyone have anything? You? You? SBD?"

"Nothing for me. I just heard "Meeting" and came." (Like a good trained Pavlovian dog.)

It's expected, after all.

"Oh, you're so good. You must be trying to show us all up."

And I fail in the most respectable way. Head lowered and lips tightly pursed against the, "Well, fuck you," that I so wanted to say. A tirade of inequity searing my gut just screaming, "Don't you understand? I'm not trying to be a goody two-shoes. I don't judge you -- well, maybe I do -- I'm just doing what's expected. I just don't want to be a burden. I don't want to be a liability. I want to be accepted. That's all."

Mama issues. Kicked out of another Christmas Eve that's reserved "for family," nevermind I've already suppressed my moral compass and physical attraction in order to gain acceptance and entry, partner included, to family gatherings. No more cookouts and family gatherings spent solo in a pack of couples. "I have a white boy now, mama. Can we come to Christmas?" Only no, we can't. Mama doesn't like D00d's mother, so we can't come.

Why the fuck do I still care? Except ... it's expected. Why can't you just love me, mama? How much more of myself can I bury? How much more of myself can I kill off to gain your acceptance? Cuz apparently I'm not smart enough to figure out how to appease you without ruining every other relationship I will ever enter into.

6:53 pm - 12.22.09
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