You know that thing where you feel you have done something wrong and it tips you into full-blown panic? Then, suddenly you are covered in shame because it has triggered all the guilt and mistakes that rear up from everything you’ve ever said or done. Well. We were recently introduced to the term ‘Moral perfectionism’. Basically the craving of a clean moral state. Which got us thinking of all the other perfectionisms we suffer from. Like…
This is the futile hope that one day you will be able to reach into your brain and pluck out the perfect riposte in a timely fashion – be it sweeping the table clear, throwing down a map and saying ‘I’ve got a plan’, or telling some manspreading mansplainer exactly why his brand of casual ignorance is not going to work. You would throw some devising grenade at the ex; destroy the horrible boss; devastate the insulting sexist. It would also render redundant the annoying process of going back through arguments in the shower and winning them after the fact. A long, long time after the fact. Like maybe 22 years. As a for instance.
Is it too hot? Or too cold? Is the lighting right? Too bright? Too glary? Enough glow? Are there enough cushions? Too many? Would you like to sit at the table? Sit soft? Inside? Outside? Lie down? Is there a moment’s peace in the quest for the ultimate ambience? In a word, no.
99% of Midult conversations are about sleep. The perfectionism comes in the desire to fully and specifically articulate how little sleep you got, between what hours you were awake, what chemical/holistic assistance you had or didn’t have, and the thoughts that troubled you in the process. You expect full aural cooperation from your interlocutor – but absolutely no fucking feedback.
The exact amount of liquid – whether it be water, coffee, tea, alcohol, CBD – to ingest in order to feel good but not too good, awake but not too awake, funny but not too funny, relaxed but not too relaxed. You are almost there. Are you though? And do you need to pee?
Anyone else believe to their absolute core that 1 hour 30 minutes is the optimum length for a film and anything else is madness and why would anyone make a film longer? And as soon as it starts ticking over the 90-minute sweet spot you start sweating and panicking and then you begin to question everything. ‘Why am I like this? Why are they like this? Is this supposed to be good? Am I the problem?’ And just like that, the credits roll on your existential crisis. (See also books over 400 pages and series with more than 6 seasons)
Is this the perfect journal for your best and brilliant thoughts? Or is this the perfect journal for your best and brilliant thoughts? Does it have a soft cover? Is it A4 or A little bit smaller than that? Does it have a witty slogan or an inspirational quote? You have more stationery than WH Smiths and yet you have failed to manifest anything at all. Hold on, maybe you are just manifesting journals. Dear God.