Are you a perfectionist? Poor you. Are you lazy? I am. But here’s the rub: I am a lazy perfectionist, which is absolutely the worst of all worlds. Wanting everything to be just so. Needing everything to be just so. Noticing whenever anything isn’t just so. But lacking the engine to do much about it.
And so, I find myself enveloped in a kind of lacklustre fury. Oh God that presentation doesn’t really sing does it? It’s missing the magic. I mean, it ticks the boxes but it’s not going to set any pulses racing, is it? But can I be bothered to do the extra thinking? I can’t. The job is kind of done and so I’d rather move on.
My bed is made as in pulled together but are there hospital corners and ironed pillowcases and a perfectly smoothed quilt? No. And it’s annoying. Because, inside, I am the person with the immaculate bed; in my parallel perfectionist universe.
Lazy perfectionism cancels out both the relaxing, meditative quality of lovely, considered laziness and the satisfaction of jobs brilliantly done. It extends to make-up: can I be bothered to blend? Not so much but the patches and smudges are annoying. And clothes: do I know that I could dress better if I focussed and saved up rather than chucking on whatever I can afford that fits?
I am hoping that I can settle into either real indolence or true rigour. Or at least work really hard on one thing (the bed would be a start) to show that the inner perfectionist has drive rather than just an ability to make snarky observations. If I give the inner perfectionist small channels to let off steam then maybe she’ll just shut up so I can do some more lying down.