perfect

I was always rubbish at covering my books with duracel as a kid. I had massive envy of the kids whose book covers were professionally smooth and in cool patterns, as all Mum would buy us was clear, to encourage creativity, unless the patterned stuff was cheaper, obviously. My books always had massive ridges in the cover that I had angrily pressed down from frustration, distorting the cut-outs from TV Hits and making Leo Dicaprio and the All Saints look like the Elephant Man. I’m not the patient sort and duracel-ing books always involved certain high levels of calm and attention to detail that 10 year old me didn’t possess. Turns out 32 year old me doesn’t possess this either. The overwhelming task of covering the front of a glass surface at work with a large decal (aka duracel for adults) sent me over the fucking edge and made me reassess my life choices. (Isn’t there like someone actually qualified to do this shit though? Like some kid who was a fucking legend at covering their books and was like that’s me done, and made it their career ? If that’s you, please DM me, I need you.)  Anyway, I literally had to call my mum the next day and tearfully explain this tedious fucking story, with the obvious underlying theme / cause of my extreme anxiety:

‘Because, Mum, if the decal is wrinkled, I am obviously a fucking failure, at everything.’

Catastrophize much? I can’t even smooth out a piece of thin plastic so how am I qualified to even do this job, surely everyone at work (and in every other aspect of my life) knows that all of my confidence is a massive act and that 80% of my time at work/ in life is me pretending I know how to do something and the other 20% is me going for a calming walk / hiding in the toilets so I don’t have to deal with excel / finance reports / targets / rostering / giant fucking decals/ stupid boys / mean girls/ the universe. I’m a total fake, I’m sure everyone secretly hates me and if I can’t even stick this goddamn poster to this lift then why am I here and what am I doing with my life. My decal looks like an old man’s nutsack and I AM BAD AT EVERYTHING EVER. My heart rate reached 189 BPM during this ordeal, which I don’t think it even got to during the Open this year.

Soooo

I went and spoke to a psychologist. For an hour I cried about a stupid boy, talked about My Fitness Pal and tried to explain the difference between CrossFit and Weightlifting (this is harder than it sounds and I think I might just write up a FAQ for future enquiries as it’s getting tedious AF). Anyway, it was OK. Until she tried to lock me into 6 consecutive appointments with a very strict cancellation policy (literally, if you die on the way to your appointment, you STILL have to pay) and I didn’t have my diary on me and the thought of confirming an appointment in 6 weeks without consulting my rigid schedule threw me into a complete state of panic. Too cowardly to actually say that though, I grimaced and agreed, before calling the next day to cancel them all, saying that it ‘wasn’t a good fit’. I can’t be made to feel pressure from the person I’m talking to about feeling pressure. Instead I’ve been walking a lot, immersing myself in Brene Brown audiobooks and spending my free time cleaning, sleeping, and looking after my neighbour’s cat, which is also way cheaper. (He’s huge and gives the best Tall Cat hugs.)

The decal incident drew my attention to the extent of my levels of perfectionism. I only recently learnt what this is (thanks to my one session), and basically it’s this thought process that if you can be perfect, act perfect, and look perfect, then you won’t be judged and criticised, because there is nothing FOR anyone to judge and criticise. Perfectionism is basically a suit of armour made outta bullshit that you think protects you from the big mean universe. It doesn’t though. What it does do is weigh you down with the completely unrealistic perception that you are impervious to said judgment / criticism, so when you attempt to be vulnerable and express your actual feels no one gives a shit or calls you a pussy. You’re perfect right, so of course you don’t care what people say about you, that would show weakness, which clearly you don’t have, because armour.  According to my new, free, audiobook psychologist, saying ‘I am going to fucking cry if I spend one second longer on this piece of shit decal’ is not weakness. Saying ‘Hey, that made me feel like a cunt when you said that thing’ isn’t weakness. What IS weakness is pretending everything is fucking fine and that sticks, stones and balls of angrily scrunched up decal bounce right off of your bullshit armour.

There is a happy end to the decal story, which is that I took a huge breath, re-gained control, un-peeled half the fucker and cut it into sections so it could be re-stuck with slightly less of a nutsack texture.  It’s not perfect, but neither am I, and I’m going to stop trying to be. Hilarious and disgusting example: Last year I went to the doctor because I was CONVINCED I had a tampon stuck up me beyond reach, which there wasn’t, so the doctor was forced to finger me for no actual reason. Aaaand the reason I was certain there was one in there is because this exact situation had happened before. Yeah, that’s a bit fucked, and so were my book covers, and my group fitness decal, but that’s OK. My failure to keep track of how many (if any) tampons are inside my body doesn’t make me a failure, maybe I just have a numb vagina. Maybe I’m destined to text my friend ‘If I ask in a week or so, tell me I took my last tampon out plz’ every month for the rest of my life. Maybe next time we get a decal I’ll insist we pay someone to do it (because literally one of those kids who was a legend at covering their school books now does this for a living). Decals are not worth tears and anxiety attacks. Tampons potentially are (because toxic shock syndrome) but it’s OK, I have a system now (thanks Peta). My point is, if something sucks, or if you need help, just fucking say so. Being honest and asking for help isn’t weakness. Weakness is hiding in the toilets with a vagina potentially full of old tampons.

PS: I take no responsibility for any future fuck-storms taking my advice causes, remember, I am 32 years old and literally cried over duracel.