For years I’ve said that I’m a failure of a perfectionist. I strive to be perfect, realize it’s too much work and then give up. But really, deep down inside I want that perfect moment of perfect.
This is where the failure part comes in, warring with my need to be a realist. Apparently, a friend burst my bubble recently and told me that I was a type-A personality. I was insulted. Really, I was insulted.
I have never considered my self type-A. Type-B or Z but never A. I have never run over anyone who got my way. Usually I step out of their way and continue on my own way, dodging obstacles as they appear or helping those who need it if they are in my way. But not running people over. What good does that do?
I don’t put my goals in front of the greater good. I have the tendency to let others have the limelight and the front. After all, when the enemy starts firing they are the first to go. I’m busy supporting and logisticing (I know, I’m making up words).
I don’t rush to judgement on people. Applying labels left and right. How can I judge a person? It’s not my job. I prefer an opportunity to get to know someone. But I’ll be honest, I don’t tolerate someone applying labels to me. It rankles me.
I was raised by type-A personalities, who told me what to do and how to do it until the cows came home, literally. They were focussed and never able to allow me to be me. I had to be a reflection of them. They weren’t bad people, they just didn’t understand I didn’t find their drive important. I had a different rhythm in my life.
My rhythm is syncopated and runs counter to my family, but it doesn’t mean it is unharmonious. It just means different. That’s been the toughest lesson for me to learn.
The rest of the family may not get it, but I do. Frankly, I can live with that.