Why I Became a Perfectionist

When I was a child, in addition to loving spooky stories, I was terrible at everything. I’m not being      gratuitously self-deprecating here—I actually was. To convince you, here are some real –life examples:  

Reading and other intellectual pursuits: I really couldn’t read well until I was like seven. Also, I struggled with basic math principles. This always shocks people because I’m pretty darn literate/academically inclined today, but it was slow coming. Everyone always talks about certain children’s books that they loved, like Anne of Greene Gables, the Little House on the Prairie, ect. I hated all those books as a child and would have tantrums when people would try to get me to read them. Largely because I couldn’t really read. (But also because they sucked. I’m standing by that.) 

Competitive swimming: I decided to join the swim team at the Country Club (This sounds way more privilege-y that it really was.) because by best friend did it. Also all the cool kids did it, and I wanted to be cool. I could swim, yes, but was not anywhere near the caliber necessary for competitive swimming. I’m pretty sure I almost drowned during my first race, mostly because I was crying so hard. For some reason I remained on this swim team for years, and I never got much better. I was a frequent recipient of the slow clap*. 

Ballet: Holy Cow. I was/still am the worst dancer of all time. Why oh why did I take dance class from the ages of two to ten? That was eight solid years of self-esteem erosion. I was not flexible, and I had no rhythm and weak ankles. Also, I was like three feet taller than all the other girls my age, which seriously hindered my attempts to hide on stage. ALSO: My dance teachers were really mean to me and openly mocked and berated me in front of my cute, tiny, perfect classmates. ALSO: Because I was so huge, I looked ridiculous in costumes that could still pass as cute on smaller girls, like a faux-tuxedo leotard with will a bowler hat, a glitter ascot, and a skirt with pink polka dots. 

I could continue this list indefinitely, adding piano, cross stitching, musical theater, cheerleading, hand writing, drawing and so on and so forth, but suffice it to say that I was just pretty much terrible at everything. I remember thinking about how weird it was that I wasn’t at least average at at least one thing. I mean, it seemed statistically improbable, even. 

By fifth grade, I had gotten really really sick of being so bad at everything. I actually remember consciously deciding that I was going to be good, or least average, at something, whether I was naturally inclined to be or not. That was it. I’d had it.

First, I begged my dad to teach me how to play basketball. I knew that not many girls knew how to play basketball, so it wouldn’t be so hard to seem good in comparison. Also, at this point, I was still towering over my peers, so basketball seemed like a logical choice. So I worked really hard, and practiced every day in our driveway. Picture a training montage of eleven-year-old me, out in the driveway in all types of inclimate wheather, wearing something ridiculous like overalls, practing jump shots (Musical score: the Chariots of Fire song). I became a decent basketball player. Actually, I was the best player on YMCA girls’ league team. (We were the worst team in the league, but still!) 

Not being the worst at something was amazing. I really loved it, and I decided I wanted to be not the worst at more things. In junior high, I became obsessively committed to my school work, to the extent that I was ranked first in my class. This was the best. I was actually good at something! Or actually, I wasn’t, I was just working really hard, but I appeared to be good at something.

In high school, I quit basketball, but I started running and playing tennis. I worked really hard at both so I could be not the worst. In fact, I was eventually among the best on both my cross country and tennis teams. I knew I couldn’t stop working really hard, because my not-the-worst-itude was an illusion that I maintained through shear will power and dedication. 

By the end of high school, my perfectionism was out of control. I was valedictorian. I was captain of the cross country team and second seed on the tennis team. I won a big, prestigious college scholarship. And when I got to college, I couldn’t stop racking up the accomplishments. I was defining myself by my ability to achieve, and it was exhausting. But I couldn’t stop! Because I didn’t want the slow clap!

In my mind, there was no in-between. It was either A or F; I was either awesome of shitty. My perfectionism was psychologically unhealthy, and I knew that I would need to take steps to stop it. Which I will discuss in my next post, because this one is already far too long.  I plan to title it “The Struggles of a Recovering Perfectionist.” Stay tuned, Morgan and Hanna (who I assume are the only people who could be potentially be reading this.)

*For those of you unfamiliar with this term: Often, in racing sports like swimming, track, and cross country, the spectators erupt into spontaneous, slow, rhythmic applause for the competitor who finishes last in a race. Especially if the race is long, and especially if the competitor is obviously struggling. It’s a pity thing, and it’s humiliating. If you are guilty of the slow clap, please stop.

Benign, TV-related Midlife Crisis

Just when I thought my life couldn't get any more confusing, I learn that my parents now regularly watch South Park.

The Spooky, the Spooked, and the Unspookable (This is a Halloween Post)

When I was a kid, I loved scary stories. I was also extremely easily creeped out by them. My aunt had (has?) this incredible talent for making up stories on the spot. (It’s hard! I tried once and created like five plot holes in the first three minutes.) I would beg my aunt to tell me a scary story, and she would make up something about swamp creatures (she actually had me convinced that this one was non-fiction until I was ten) or ghosts who wanted their stolen fingers back, or something along those lines. 

The minute she was done, I was paralyzed with fear. I would literally be afraid to walk into the next room by myself. I would be afraid to turn my head to look behind me, but then I would also be afraid to not look behind me because OH NO WHAT’S BEHIND ME?!?

I was an extremely spookable child, but spooky stories where like crack to me—I couldn’t get enough. As I got older though, the idea of disembodied spirits floating around became diametrically opposed to my developing world view. I’m not going to get into a discussion of the validity of dualism in my spooky Halloween post, but let’s just say that the idea of supernatural happenings no longer made sense to me.

My brother Morgan, also a reformed spook addict, collected volumes of local spooky stories on family vacations, so our family library housed  Haunted Heartland  and The Ghosts of the Outer Banks  next to titles like  Teach Yourself to Ski in One Day! and The North American Guide to Tomatoes.

One time, when I was visiting my family in Beckley during a school break, I decided that one of these volumes would be appropriate light reading. I can’t remember what the story I read was called, but it was about a young female dead person that rapped on the floor of a lady’s apartment and begged her for food. And even though I was way too educated and logical and mature to believe in ghosts, the more I read, the more trouble I was having looking behind me. And not looking behind me. And HOLY COGNITIVE DISSONANCE I WAS SO SPOOKED.

What is going on here? I really don’t understand it. I feel like some people might hold my reaction up as evidence that I actually do, on some level, believe that there is more to us than our brain chemicals. Maybe I do? I sort of really want to. I don’t know. 

But another, even more egregious, example of the same type of thing sort of seems to refute this “hope for souls” theory: Last weekend when I went to Kennywood’s Fright Night, I found myself reluctant to walk past the various teenagers dressed as zombies and axe murderers and…undead sanitation workers (?). Even though I KNEW that they were teenagers, they were still so spooky. Also, I am incredibly afraid of haunted houses. Like, close my eyes and use the person I’m with as a human shield afraid. 

Obviously, my fear of teenagers in stage makeup and cheap carnival rides cannot be attributed to an enduring belief in the human spirit. It just doesn’t make sense. Because, through the act of willingly entering what everyone agrees is an artificial spooky environment, you are establishing the fact that none of what you are spooked by is, or possibly could be, real. 

This makes me think that my reaction to spookiness is more of an animalistic, adrenaline-driven, instinctual reaction to perceived spooky stimuli. But the confusing thing is that it’s not a reaction shared by everyone. Morgan, for example, was never particularly spooked by my aunt’s stories, not even at the height of our shared ghost enthusiasm, and I’m pretty sure he would laugh at undead sanitation workers. He seems to be unspookable. 

So what is the difference between people like him and people like me? I’m going to go with the explanation that is the most satisfying to my ego, which is: People like me are more fanciful and imaginative. But then, why I am so terrible at making up stories?

The Importance of Hair

my hair, in thicker days

There has been a long-running discussion of the potentially damaging effects of depictions of extremely slender women in the media. Many feel that images of tiny models make girls and women uncomfortable with their bodies, potentially leading to low self-esteem and even eating disorders.

This is a cause of much outrage, and steps have been taken to combat the problem. But the media also bombards women with another kind of perfection. And though these images have the potential to be equally self-esteem damaging, this problem is not the topic of a lively debate. I’m talking about images of perfect hair. Long, flowing, glossy shampoo commercial hair. The Kardashian’s waist-length, loose curls. When you think about it, actually, pretty much every model, sitcom actress, and movie star has really nice hair, regardless of size or shape. Images of hair perfection in the media are rampant, and it’s driving me crazy.

I’ve been struggling with my hair for a while now. I had thick, smooth hair as a child, and then the texture suddenly changed when I was fourteen or fifteen and it became oddly wiry and cowlicky in places. And then, at the end of high school, I started to notice that that my scalp was showing around my crown. The next year, I noticed that the circumference of my ponytail was shrinking. But each time I noticed my hair thinning, I chalked it up to poor diet, lack of sleep, and stress, and I vowed to sort it out when my life style was less hectic.

The summer after I graduated from college I had all the time in the world to sleep. I was not under any stress, and I made a point of eating well and taking daily supplements. But my hair just kept getting thinner. My part was a mile wide, and I used baby hair fasteners to secure my tiny pony tail. I could no longer blame my thinning hair on external environmental factors. I had to admit I had a problem.

Hair had never been a huge focus for me in the past. I have cut my long hair into a chin-length bob with little thought and no regret. I cycle through bangs almost every year. I frequently allow non-trained, non-professional friends to cut my hair.  I am not the kind of girl who cries over a bad haircut. In fact, hair-criers always annoyed me supremely. Because it’s just hair, right?

But when I realized that I was really truly losing my hair, I became obsessed. I’m now constantly gauging the thickness of other’s hair when I’m out, staring longingly at particularly thick and lush tresses. I’m also constantly accusing people of using extensions (but only in my head (most of the time)). I know that it’s wrong and judgey, but it makes me feel better about myself, okay?

Not that hair loss is ANYWHERE near as severe an ordeal as the loss of a limb or similar disfiguring injury, but I really feel like I’ve gotten a taste of that particular brand of pain. Of feeling like you’ve suddenly lost your ability to be conventionally beautiful. Of feeling like you must now learn to be “you” in a whole new way.

Hoping that there was still a dim chance of getting my hair back, I visited my GP, who ordered two rounds of blood tests to check for things like thyroid problems, anemia, and major hormone imbalances. When all the tests came back normal, I concluded that I was suffering from genetic hair loss.

A trip to the dermatologist last Thursday confirmed my suspicions. And even though I was already pretty sure of what the final verdict would be, the doctor might as well have said “Never feeling good about yourself again” instead of “progressive genetic hair loss.”

The technical name for what’s going on is androgenetic alopecia. It means that my hair falls out due to its sensitivity to androgens. I was prescribed an oral androgen blocker but was told to not expect any re-growth.

As of last Thursday, I am officially a hair-crier. I mean seriously, everyone who was in Walgreens while I was waiting to pick up my prescription probably thinks I was just diagnosed with cancer.

I know it’s stupid to be that upset over hair, but in that moment, it was so much more than hair I was mourning. I was mourning my femininity, my youth, my identity. I was mourning my plan to one day be a grandmother with a chin-length snow white bob (well, I guess I can still wear a chin-length snow white wig). I was mourning my ability to someday attract a potential mate.

Because, as it turns out, hair is SO important. Damn it. It really is.

Reflections on a Shitty Saturday, or: Why I was Sobbing in Barnes and Noble, or: Plummeting to a Whole New Low

In my last post, I worked hard to focus on the positives of my current life situation, and I’m glad I did. I enjoyed writing that post and I felt tremendously good when I was finished with it. But the truth is, I created this blog as a place to complain about things with the thought that if I complain here, I will be less apt to drive my few remaining friends away with my infinite self-pity. So, in the true spirit of Mona A. Monzano, I present to you a complaint-filled recollection of my Saturday:

I  planned to go visit my parents this weekend because Saturday was Chili Night in my home town. Chili Night is a significant social and cultural event for the good people of Southern West Virginia that consists of everyone in Raleigh county walking around what is left of downtown Beckley and eating all kinds of chili. I haven't missed one in years. So I pack my bag on Thursday night and plan to make the three hour drive from Morgantown to Beckley on Friday evening, because an old friend is coming to Morgantown on Friday afternoon and I want to spend some time with her before I leave.

By noon on Friday, however, the weather is ridiculously bad. The sky is gray, it is raining, and it is barely 40 degrees. I decide not to go to Beckley because it isn't worth forty dollars in gas and six hours in the car to attend a bleak, dreary, rainy chili night. A problem though: it is also 40 degrees in my house in Morgantown because we can't get the furnace’s pilot light lit and have no heat. My solution to this problem: spend Saturday evening in the warm, pleasantly-lit, mood music filled face of the evil corporation Barnes and Noble.

When I arrived at B and N I head straight for the new fiction section. I am already feeling sort of blah and I'm not about to challenge and depress myself with real literature. There on the shelf I see something that I sort of wish I hadn’t: a new Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants book.

The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants books have been a source of emotional turmoil for me since I began the series at fifteen. My relationship with them is very very complicated.

Firstly, there is the obvious: They are mockable. The name of the series itself is corny, and the concept is sort of corny and they are the punchline of many a slightly misogynistic joke. Then, in 2005, they made a movie adaption, which was poorly-cast and horrendously corny. I hate and loathe this movie because, in addition to being terrible, it gives people who didn’t read the books the idea that they were cornier than they actually are.

Because yes, they are sort of corny, but they are also sweet, earnest, and innocent, and Ann Brashares does a decent job of portraying the multi-dimensionality of being a young, middle class, American female. And I enjoyed reading the books, even though I myself normally mock similar titles.

Secondly, though, I have a less intuitive problem with these books. This problem stems from own social insecurities, as so many of my problems do. It’s like this: the four principle characters in the Traveling Pants books are best girlfriends since birth. Their friendship continues through high school and college, and they even live together post-college. I am not good at friendship maintenance. I have maybe two lifelong friends, and am I no longer in contact with most of my high school crowd. I’m sure a lot of people have the same problem, but still, reading about these everlasting gal pals kind of bums me out.

So, anyway, I couldn’t resist the fifth and final (?) installment of this bothersome but addictive little series, so I picked it up and searched for a private corner of B and N to read it in (because I did not want anybody to see me reading it (because I was embarrassed)).

And SPOILER ALERT! But this was not the light tale of everlasting friendship that I signed up for. The alternative film maker girlfriend kills herself! By jumping into the ocean! In Greece! Within the first sixty pages!

So I’m already feeling kind of sad about my own lack of everlasting friendships, and then here I am, in a remote corner of Barnes of Noble at 10 pm on a Saturday night, mourning the sudden death of a fictional character that I’ve known and loved since I was fifteen. And crying uncontrollably.

I only got to read about 100 pages because Barnes and Noble closes at 11. So I went home to my empty and freezing house and ate scrambled eggs and streamed Party Down on Netflix while wearing a winter coat.

And I don’t even know how the book ends, but there is always next Saturday.

Edited to add that tonight I realized that I wouldn't have been able to eat chili anyway, because I became a vegetarian this summer. So good call staying in Morgantown, despite the cold and house and the Traveling Paints trauma.