Trick it into thinking you’re ignoring it completely…
Make it believe you’ve bowed to its superiority and cowered away…
Lull the beast into a false sense of security, sing a couple of
campfire songs if you must…
Then, when the challenge has turned cocky and turned away, you strike!
Ok, perhaps the exclamation point is a bit much, since when I say “strike”
I’m meaning shooting a spitball in its ear and sneaking by while the beast digs
the wet wad out of its head.
Yep. Ladies and gentlemen, meet the Spitball Queen.
*waves innocently from behind the
finish line*
Case in point:
I’m not only a perfectionist, I’m a perfectionist who suffers a
knee-buckling, rib-cracking gut punch at every single error I make.
Don’t ask me why. That’s a job for my psychiatrist to publish a paper
on.
All I know is that it happens and I have to deal with it.
So in my constant need to push the limits of my off-kilter brain, the
last few weeks I have begun to tiptoe around the “surviving my own imperfection”
challenge.
How?
I’ve started volunteering on genealogy sites transcribing old documents
(passports, birth records, passenger lists, etc) into digital form.
Each of these transcriptions is checked by somebody who actually knows
what they’re doing and my efforts are graded.
Big deal, right?
Freaking huge deal for a maniacal perfectionist.
Clicking that submit button when I know that what I’ve transcribed is
only the best, educated guess of what the old, faded handwriting I’m seeing is
saying is, well, tortuous.
Or at least it was when I first started a month ago.
Every day (because I do work on it every single day), the punch in the
gut is getting a little less brutal. Ribs are no longer snapped with their
edges threatening to puncture a lung, instead they are merely fractured and
held in place.
Yeah, kind of pitiful, I know, but… at least I never stop shooting my little
spitballs in the challenge’s ear.
That’s something, right?
Until tomorrow…
Chloe (Queen of the Spitball)
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