We had our kitchen redone about
six years ago—refaced cabinets, new tile floor with heat pads and dual
thermostats, new fridge and dishwasher. It was all done about about the time my
wife lost her job, which constituted half the family income, but that’s another
story, another post. We have a half-bath off the kitchen, from which I removed
the sink, toilet, lighting fixture and other bolt-ons so my wife could put up
new wallpaper. It took her a year. Our lavatory is 4-feet by 4 feet. The wallpapering
job looks perfect because my wife is a perfectionist.
I
am not a perfectionist. I’m not so bad that I can claim that for me “good
enough is my very best.” I frequently sweat the little things, but seldom if
ever sweat the tiny things. My wife takes pride in sweating the tiny…the
infinitesimal… the molecular. She is one of those people who take on the look
of disturbed pride as they describe themselves as perfectionists. The fruits of
their labor, I do admit, are often good, but generally infrequent and well
overdue on delivery. In the process, perfectionists tend to endure a constant
misery and fear of underperformance while creating a hell of outlandish
expectations imposed on partners, bosses, and underlings.
“But
I can tell the difference,” is the
perfectionists’ lament, even when there is no difference perceivable to even
the trained eye. And even when there is, I’m a believer in the glib retort,
“Perfection is the enemy of the good.” Just get on with it. I have written four
fair-to-good novels. The perfectionist is still working on his first. And
working and working and working with no end in sight.
Now,
when it comes to surgery…
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