I have made plans and lists and schedules, ready to try new things, learn new things, start a new path.
I do this every year, every month, every week almost. I come home from work to declare to my mom or a sister or Tom exactly what it is I am going to do next.
I plan trips, parties, dates, projects, business ventures.
And I almost never do any of them.
But I no longer care.
I am no longer embarrassed by my flightiness, by my excitement, by my temporary obsession that just leads to a search history and entertainment for my commute.
I am not a perfectionist. I am almost always happy with good enough. And I mean it-- I'm happy. My hair and house are always in a mild state of dishevel. I have never owned a pair of jeans that fit. My car is full of coffee cups and discarded toys. I don't know how to use my camera. I have at least six half finished projects patiently waiting for me to make them whole.
I have no anxiety driving me. I don't need to be much of anything to be content. My contentment has led to mediocrity. I live a conventional life.
My best friend Joanna lives in New York. Everyone is a slash. She works with clowns, composers, aerialists, and novelists, who all make their money in a perfect little restaurant void of pretense. Everyone is busy and endlessly fasicanting. She says no one has time for dinner parties.
I really like dinner parties.
Like my father, I enjoy the road of least resistance, but like his father and my mother too, I am a dreamer. A dreamer without drive.
Maybe I am a perfectionist after all. Maybe my version of perfect simply doesn't involve details.
My schemes can keep me company and then move on, and I'll welcome the next with open arms.
